Underneath
by northernexposure
Summary: Fraser and Vecchio investigate the murder of a Canadian in Chicago, which causes problems for Thatcher and takes the two Mounties to Toronto. FV friendship FT UST. Set sometime late in season two, post ATQH and RWB.
1. Chapter 1

**Underneath**

Author: SharonG

Summary: In ten parts. Fraser and Vecchio investigate the murder of a Canadian in Chicago, which causes problems for Thatcher and takes the two Mounties to Toronto. F/V (friendship) F/T (UST). Set sometime late in season two (post ATQH and RWB).

Overall Rating: G rising to PG in places.

Overall Pairings: Fraser/Vecchio (friendship), Fraser/Thatcher (UST), Thatcher/Other.

Disclaimer: Due South and characters are owned by Alliance Atlantis. This is a non-profit venture.

…

1/10

…

The rain was falling in heavy drops, but not loudly enough for the sound to rise above the dirty bustle of downtown Chicago. A siren wailed close by, the cop car splashing through puddles as it raced past the end of the darkened alley. It was late, past midnight, and the streets were bathed with the artificial colours of electric light and a florescence of the sort that demarked this end of town. Nightlife on this side of the city was as busy as day, though it's inhabitants were happier dwelling – and dealing – in the after-light hours. Darkness buried a multitude of sins between sundown and dawn.

The alley had no lights of its own. The boy, slumped against one wall, blinked towards the puzzle of colour emanating from the street. He reached up to rub his eyes, but found his fingers damp with what his fuddled brain assumed was his blood. His other hand was beneath his jacket, clamped to his chest, trying to stem another flow of blood. With something like a sigh, he slipped down the wall, folding into a heap on the chill ground.

Meanwhile, beyond the alley's darkness Chicago flourished, a mess of noise and light illuminating the shore of Lake Michigan, whose great waters received the rain gently, the drops splashing quietly home.

…

Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police looked at himself carefully in the mirror as he shaved. It was early, too early for anyone else to have arrived at their posts. It was just himself, and his part-wolf Diefenbaker in the silence of the Consulate, a little piece of home in a foreign country.

It always amazed Fraser, the cultural and social distance that could exist between two countries such as Canada and the USA, despite being so close in geographical terms. He was also constantly surprised at the difference having somewhere like the consulate made to him. It was just a building, yet stepping inside it made him feel at home, and that was unrelated to the fact that this was still where he laid his head at night. Although it probably had more to do with the furnishings and decoration, Fraser liked to feel that there was actually something indeterminately _Canadian_ in the air. It wasn't that he was particularly patriotic, it was just that if he was as honest with himself as he was with other people (which didn't happen often, and rarely when anyone else was within earshot), he missed home. He missed the great expanse of snow and ice that was the north. That was _his_ Canada.

Leaning back from the mirror as he finished shaving, Fraser turned his head left and right, inspecting both sides of his profile. Satisfied with the clean nature of his shave, the Constable put the razor away and looked down at Diefenbaker. The wolf lay half-in, half-out of the bathroom door with his head on his paws, looking up at his owner expectantly.

"I suppose you'll be wanting your breakfast, then," said Fraser, as he pulled on the bright red serge jacket that constituted the overcoat of his daily uniform.

The wolf raised his head and yipped an affirmative before getting up and heading towards the Consulate kitchen.

"Its nice to know that some things are always reliable," the Mountie remarked, half to himself, half to Diefenbaker. The wolf grumbled a response. "Well yes, you're right, there is that," Fraser answered.

Through the small window in the kitchen, Fraser could see the grey clouds still crowding the sky as the rain continued to fall. The street looked cleaner, fresher as a result of the night's drenching.

After putting Dief's food down, the Constable made himself some toast and coffee, and sat at the table. As he ate, thinking through his day to come – he had a morning meeting with Ray – a taxi slowed to a stop outside. The car's door opened, and Inspector Meg Thatcher stepped out, pulling a bag behind her and shielding her eyes from the downpour. Surprised, the Constable glanced at his watch – 7.30am, still early. Turnbull wouldn't arrive until around 8am, and usually the Inspector arrived somewhere between 8 and 8.30. Abandoning his breakfast, Fraser hurried into the Consulate hallway and picked up an umbrella, heading outside to shelter his superior officer from the weather. She was paying the driver as he approached, leaning into the passenger side window, her bag standing in the rain at her feet.

Thatcher reached for her bag, but Fraser beat her to it, holding the umbrella over her head with one hand and her overnight with the other.

"Good morning, Sir," Fraser offered.

"Good morning, Constable." Thatcher's dark eyes showed a little surprise at his appearance by her side. She looked stressed, he noted, there were circles beneath her eyes. Thatcher reached for her bag again, but Fraser held on to it. A familiar exasperation showed on her face as she said, "Fraser, give me my bag."

"Allow me, ma'am. After you." He gestured towards the door.

"Oh for goodness' sake, Fraser," she muttered darkly, turning and walking swiftly towards the Consulate, the Constable following behind. "You're the only Canadian I know who can take politeness to an excessively annoying degree."

"Thank you, sir." Fraser tilted a slight smile at Diefenbaker, standing in the doorway. "Oh dear," he said under his breath, as he watched the irate Inspector disappear into her office, pulling the door shut behind her with a sharp click. Glancing down at the bag he still held in his hand, he wondered for a moment where Meg Thatcher had spent the weekend, but pushed the thought away immediately and went to rescue his rapidly cooling coffee. At the front desk, the phone started to ring.

…

The body lay against the wall, head at right-angles to the torso, upright against the slick bricks. The forensic guys had erected a tarp over the scene, running it across the alleyway between two old and rusting escape ladders, but the ground was still wet from the night's downpour and the victim's blood had mixed with the puddles pooled around him.

Ray Vecchio pulled his collar up around his ears and considered the murder scene. What a place to die, and the kid was what? 17, 18. Certainly not above 20. What a waste. It was times like this – crime scenes like this – that made him feel old. Taking out a notepad and pen, the detective began to make a few notes. He glanced towards the end of the alleyway, which was less that five feet from where the guy had fallen. The coroner hadn't looked at the wounds yet, but those five feet told Vecchio that they had to be deep. The victim had bled to death, or had at least been rendered immobile, fast enough to make crawling those five feet into the lit street impossible. Not that there were any guarantees that had he managed to drag himself that far, help would have been at hand. The south side of Michigan Avenue isn't where you'd typically find Chicago's most diligent citizens. But the kid hadn't even tried moving towards help, so he must have died quickly.

He heard more movement behind him, and turned to see Benton Fraser ducking beneath the police cordon that was keeping the usual array of morbid rubberneckers out of the way. Tucking the notebook back in his pocket, he walked towards his friend.

"Fraser, I called you so you wouldn't waste your time coming out – what are you doing here?"

"Good morning, Ray. Lovely weather we're having."

"Yeah, it's just great. Seriously, Benny, there's really nothing you can do here. You might as well head back and do… whatever it is you Canadians do when you're not out getting your man."

"That's kind of you, Ray, but it's really no trouble being here. I may not have any official business, but if you can use an extra pair of eyes, here they are."

Vecchio appraised the Mountie with narrowed eyes. "Don't tell me, the Dragon Lady's pissed again. Why this time? It's not even 9am on Monday morning yet. Is she ever happy?"

"I do wish you wouldn't call her that, Ray, it's very disrespectful. I simply felt it would be prudent to leave the Inspector in peace. She seemed… a little fragile this morning."

"Fragile? That woman?" Vecchio snorted, "the day she's fragile is the day I start huggin' trees. If she were a vehicle she'd be a tank."

"Please, Ray," Fraser admonished, looking pained.

"Okay, okay. Since you're here, I guess you may as well do your thing. Well, without the licking part. That just makes me sick."

"Surely I've explained the importance of taste in the art of tracking?"

"Yes… many times…" The two men walked towards the corpse. A member of the forensics team crouched beside the body. "How's it going?"

The woman looked up at him, raising her protective goggles. "Not much more we can do here, detective. I've taken a few fibres, and fluid samples from the different water puddles around here. Whether or not it'll be able to tell us if there's more than one blood type present here, I don't know. The rain's done a lot of damage."

Vecchio nodded his understanding. "Any idea when he died?"

The forensic officer shrugged. "Can't be absolutely accurate, the body will have cooled quicker with the rain. It's more than four hours though, and probably less than eight."

"So sometime last night," Vecchio made a note. "Okay, thanks. Let us know when you have something more."

"Always do," she said with a faint smile, standing up and moving away.

"It's okay to turn him over?"

"Knock yourself out."

The two men approached the body, Fraser grasping the corpse's legs while Vecchio took up position at the shoulders. With a heave they turned the dead boy over, laying him flat on his back on the cold ground.

The body was dressed in blue jeans, what had once been a white shirt and a dark blue jacket. The shirt was soaked with darkening blood, two ragged slits in the fabric at his chest pointing out where the wounds had been inflicted. Pulling on a pair of disposable plastic gloves, Ray smoothed out the shirt.

"Well, definitely a stabbing," the detective muttered. Lifting the body's sodden jacket, Vecchio raised an eyebrow a the designer label. "Pretty pricey for a kid from around here."

"Could it be a fake?"

"I wouldn't have a clue. Frannie would be the one to ask about that. She's into all this designer crap."

Vecchio moved onto the pockets, pulling out the few possessions he found there. A set of keys and a wallet, which he handed to a similarly gloved Fraser.

"Well, I don't think the motive was robbery," the Mountie observed, opening it and pulling out a roll of $50 notes.

"You think?" Vecchio held up what he'd found in the opposite pocket – a small velvet pouch. Standing, the detective turned the contents out into his palm, and whistled. "That's one nice ring."

It was gold, a simple band, set with a solitaire diamond.

"Could also be fake," said Ray, as Fraser took it from him and examined the jewel.

"I don't think so, actually." Fraser stared at the ring, holding it up and letting the scant daylight show the play of colours in the stone. After a moment he brought it close to his face, licking it thoughtfully.

"Fraser! What did I say about that?" Vecchio exclaimed, outraged. "Jeez, that's just been in a dead guy's pocket."

"It wasn't next to his skin, Ray, there's no need to worry about contamination."

"That's not the point! Gah!" The detective threw his hands up. "Working with you is like watching an episode of that old TV show, _Northern Exposure_. They were all nuts as well. Must be something in the water up there."

"Actually, that show was set in Alaska, not Canada, Ray."

"Yeah well, same difference. Too much snow is bad for the brain, that's what I think. What did you learn from that, anyway?" Vecchio held out the pouch for Fraser to return the ring.

"Nothing," said the Mountie, returning to his investigation of the wallet.

"_Nothing_?"

"I just wanted to see that look on your face. But really, there's very little you can learn from a stone…" Fraser fell silent, looking at a card he had pulled out of the wallet. "This, however, tells me something very interesting."

Vecchio stepped closer to take a look.

"A driver's license. A Canadian driver's license."

"Issued in Toronto, in fact." Fraser looked at the body at his feet.

"Well, that's a whole other kettle of carp."

"Indeed it is, Ray."

The detective sighed. "Okay. Well then, I guess we'd better go file a report with Welsh." Vecchio glanced at Fraser with a grin. "And you can go tackle the Dragon Lady."

"Oh dear."

TBC in 2/10. Reviews welcome!

END


	2. Chapter 2

Underneath 2/10

Author's note: See part One for summary, warnings and disclaimer.

…

2/10

…

Meg Thatcher sat at her desk, trying to concentrate on her computer screen. Outside the day was settling into a rainy, gray washout, _which is fine_, she thought tiredly, _because that suits my mood perfectly_.

Annoyed with herself, she blinked and leaned closer to the screen in an attempt to make herself focus on the task at hand. At least the consulate was silent, which was a welcome relief. She'd sent Turnbull out on some minor red-herring mission across Chicago, and Fraser must have left soon after washing his breakfast dishes, because she'd neither heard nor seen him since he'd ushered her into the building. The thought of him standing there in the rain holding out the umbrella made her flush with guilt, which just added to her annoyance. She'd been rude to him, she knew. As usual.

Meg sighed, resting her chin on one hand and staring blindly across her desk. She didn't know why she always reacted that way to Fraser. There was simply something about his… his utter _goodness_… that grated against her sensibilities. The man was perfect, for God's sake. Always on time, always pristine, always ready, always, i _always /i _polite. And that patient, attentive look on his face whenever he spoke to her, no matter how she was behaving… She just couldn't cope with it, couldn't cope with the memories it brought up. She couldn't cope with how quiet he was in his acceptance, and definitely couldn't cope with the brief, unwelcome twang in her heart whenever she looked at his face. _Particularly not today_.

Shaking her head, Thatcher took a mouthful of coffee from the mug on her desk and went back to work. She was determined to drag herself out of the black mood that had settled around her shoulders – she would make herself concentrate on work. Duty mattered, and she would make sure she did hers as well as ever, no matter what sort of weekend she'd had. Even if Meg Thatcher had nothing else in her life, she would always have the fact that she did her job, and she did it well. That was a source of strength and pride that had buoyed her through some of the worst periods of her adult life, and this would be no different.

Resolutely, Meg began typing again, and had just managed to complete a paragraph when she heard the door of the Consulate open and close. Glancing at the time on her screen, she saw that it was still before 10am, so it couldn't be Turnbull returning. She'd calculated that the errand she'd sent him on would keep him out of her hair until at least midday. Something sparked in her stomach – it must be Fraser. Infuriated with herself for such a juvenile reaction, Thatcher clamped down on her emotional response and stared woodenly at the screen, feeling her anger bubble to the surface once more. Somewhere at the back of her mind, her conscience pointed out insistently that her irritation was with herself, not him. _He's got his own work to do_, she reminded herself, _there's no reason for him to knock at your door. And if he does, don't bite his head off. For once, just have a normal conversation_. _He's just doing his job_.

She listened to the footsteps getting louder as they moved down the hallway towards her door. There was a pause, as if the person outside was listening or hesitating before they knocked. And then there was the knock, contained but forceful. Thatcher sighed, pinching the top of her nose with thumb and forefinger as weariness washed through her, followed by another bout of disproportionate fury at the interruption.

"Come," she barked, and could already feel the scowl on her face.

The door opened and Fraser stepped into the room, carrying his stetson in one hand.

"What is it, Constable? I thought you were liaising with the Chicago Police Department all morning?"

"Well, yes sir, I was, and I am sorry to interrupt you, but something has come up that I feel you should be made aware of." As he spoke, he directed his gaze to the wall somewhere above her head.

"Well, get on with it." Meg stood, unable to bear the way he towered over her as she sat.

"Detective Vecchio and I attended a murder scene this morning. A youth by the name of Caleb Frobisher was found stabbed to death in an alleyway off Michigan Avenue."

"And this should interest me because?"

"Frobisher was Canadian, sir."

"I see," said Thatcher after a pause. It looked like this particular Monday morning was just set to get worse and worse. "Do you have any other details for me?"

"Some, sir. Frobisher's driving license was in his pocket. His date of birth is listed as the third of April 1989 – he was 17 – and his license was registered in Toronto."

Meg sat down again, mind brought into sharp focus. She noted down the details as Fraser repeated them. "That's all?"

"There was nothing else indicative in his wallet except a substantial amount of US currency, sir."

"How much?"

"$950, sir."

She looked up at the Constable with a raised eyebrow. "So we've got a Canadian minor stabbed to death in a disreputable Chicago alleyway and he's still carrying $1000?"

"$950, yes sir. And a diamond ring."

Thatcher frowned. "I don't like the sound of this, Constable."

"No sir."

She drummed her nails on the desk brusquely. "Where's Vecchio?"

"He returned to the station to discuss the matter with Lt. Welsh and await the autopsy report, sir."

"Very well. I'll put a call through to the Toronto Service and see if they've had any missing persons. When did the death occur?"

"Sometime in the last 8 hours, sir."

"Gather as much additional information from the Chicago PD as possible for your report, Constable. Make sure that when they know something, we know something. Understood?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"Good. Dismissed."

There was a second of silence in which Fraser failed to acknowledge her order, or move. Raising her head, Meg found him looking down at her. Surprised at his uncharacteristic appraisal, she was about to open her mouth to say something when Fraser flicked his eyes away and gave a sharp nod.

"Yes, sir," he said, turning on his heel to leave the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Meg, bemused, felt the black cloak of depression and anger sink over her again. Gritting her teeth, she glanced over the scant details of Caleb Frobisher's life and reached for her telephone.

…

"So what do you reckon, Vecchio?" Lt. Welsh leaned back in his chair and felt his portly waistline press against the edge of his desk. "Think he was some green student with too much money that wandered into the wrong end of town?"

Vecchio grimaced, pacing from one end of the office to the other. "I don't know, Lieutenant. Call it a hunch…"

"…I don't like hunches, Detective."

"…call it a hunch, but I think there's something fishy going on here. What's a kid – any kid, rich or poor – doing wandering around a city he doesn't know with a wedge of cash and a diamond ring in his pocket?"

Welsh shrugged. "Who says he doesn't know the city? Just because he's Canadian doesn't mean he lives there."

"True. Maybe he's resident here, like Benny. In which case, him wandering around Michigan Avenue in the middle of the night without a piece is even weirder." Vecchio plonked himself into a chair opposite Welsh.

"What does the Canadian Consulate say?"

"Don't know yet, Fraser went back to tackle the Dra- Inspector Thatcher about it."

"And no autopsy yet?"

"They're doing it now, but it's pretty obvious what the cause of death was."

Welsh nodded slowly, and watched Vecchio for a moment before speaking. "You know we're getting close to the Jardiniere bust?"

"Yeah, I know."

"We can't blow it. If we do, the Feds will be on our tails like tin cans."

"We're not going to blow it. Why would we blow it?"

"It's just awkward. We'll be investigating a murder right on the bum's doorstep."

"Not much we can do about that, Lieutenant."

"Unless we let the Mounties take over."

"No way! Come on, think about it. You really want someone else investigating this? It's on our patch. It was on our watch. Vecchio always takes care of his own."

"Yeah, yeah. Don't pull that pseudo-hard guy stuff on me. I'm not taking the case away. A murder's a murder, and I don't like it in my town. I'm just saying – we can't blow the Jardiniere bust, because if we do, or our patch or not, the Feds will be all over it. And we've been chasing the snake for two years."

"Don't sweat it," Vecchio stood. "We'll bust him. We're so close, we can't fail. Anyway, I'm going to go find out if there are any autopsy results for the kid."

Welsh watched him leave, thoughtful. A murder was never good. A murder of a foreign national – a teenager, at that - was particularly unsavory. But a drugs bust gone bad was a cop's worst nightmare.

…

"Fraser!"

Inspector Thatcher's shout echoed through the halls of the Consulate. Its tones were not full of joy. In his office, Constable Fraser looked up from the notes he was making for his report and raised his eyebrows. On the floor beside him, Dief pricked up his ears and whined a little.

"You're right, it doesn't sound like good news," Fraser told his four-legged companion.

The shout, followed by sharp footfalls in the corridor, came again as the Mountie stood and moved to his door. He stepped into the hall to see Thatcher striding towards his room.

"There you are," she said shortly, as he appeared. "My office, now."

Fraser followed her back to her more spacious office. Thatcher settled herself behind her desk, distractedly pushing a loose strand of thick dark hair behind her ear.

"I take it the news is not good, sir?"

"When is anything to do with a murder case classed as good news, Fraser?" She asked curtly.

The constable was unsure how to respond, and decided that the safest course of action was to remain silent until his superior officer decided to volunteer further information. Fraser noticed again, for the third time that day, how strained the Inspector was looking. Her skin was always pale, but today it looked pallid, and the shadows beneath her eyes had not lessened. As he watched her, Thatcher looked up, frowning when she discovered him studying her. He removed his gaze as she began to talk.

"I've spoken to Toronto," Thatcher began. "In fact, I've spent the last I 40 minutes /I on the phone to Toronto. Caleb Frobisher was indeed reported missing – his parents made the report a week ago. I'm told that the Frobishers are very influential in the city. The father, Dom Frobisher, is in real estate. His wife Thea is running for city Mayor. And it turns out they're quite good friends of the Toronto RCMP commissioner."

"Ah," said Fraser, as he began to see where this little family history was going.

"Yes, Constable, 'Ah'." Thatcher's exasperation showed in her sharp sigh as she rubbed her eyes. "Not surprisingly, he's eager for us to do everything in our power to find the boy's killer. Who was, as you would expect, a model citizen."

"Of course, sir."

Thatcher looked up at him, and for a second he saw annoyance replaced by something close to utter exhaustion in her eyes.

"Obviously we would have done our utmost in any case," she said quietly. "But now we will get no peace until we've caught the killer."

Frasesr nodded. "The parents had not indicated that their son may have visited Chicago?"

"Not according to the commissioner. So it seems safe to assume that this is not a place they would have expected their son to turn up in." She cleared her throat. "I'm relying on you, Constable. This needs to be cleared up as soon as possible. Find the killer, and find him quickly."

"Of course, sir. I won't rest until the killer is caught."

Thatcher looked up at him again. "As I would expect, Constable. Keep me apprised of your progress. I need to talk to the coroner, see how soon I can arrange to have the body shipped back to Toronto. The commissioner wants me to accompany the corpse personally."

Fraser was surprised at this unusual order. But perhaps it would provide Thatcher with a good opportunity. "Perhaps you can take a break at the same time, Inspector?"

Thatcher's head snapped up. "Excuse me?"

"Perhaps you can take a few extra days," began the Mountie, already regretting his comment, "replenish the batteries…"

"My batteries are in perfect condition," Thatcher said, coldly. "It won't be a vacation, Fraser, it's my duty."

"Yes sir, of course. I simply thought you were looking a little tired."

"What I look like is no concern of yours, Constable." Thatcher, each move a sharp stab of movement, scribbled something on a pad before tearing off the sheet and handing it to her junior. "Take this, the parents' telephone number. Call them, I try /I to employ some tact, and find out what you can about their son's recent movements."

"Yes, sir."

She nodded, tight-lipped, and turned to her computer. Obviously his presence was no longer required. Leaving the room, he found Diefenbaker waiting for him.

"You know, Diefenbaker," he said, once back in the safety of his own office, "there are two things that I will never understand. Politics, and women."

Diefenbaker, settling back down at his feet, was apparently of the opinion that female wolves were far easier to deal with.

…

Continued in 3/10. Feedback welcome!

…


	3. Chapter 3

**Underneath**

**Author's Note:** please see part one for summary, disclaimer and warnings.

**3/10**

…

Vecchio was sitting at his desk leafing through the autopsy report when Fraser arrived.

"Benny. How'd it go?"

"As well as can be expected. The good news is that we've already located the victim's family."

"That was quick work."

"Yes, although it wasn't a difficult task. Caleb Frobisher had been reported missing to the RCMP in Toronto a week ago. It would seem that his parents have significant stature in that city's community."

"I see. A rich kid?"

"The family are certainly affluent – and influential. I've been going over the missing person's report. Apparently the victim had been expected back from spending the weekend at the family vacation home in Port Elgin, but he never returned."

"Port Elgin? Where's that?"

"On the shore of Lake Huron, about a three hour drive from Toronto."

"So he could have gone missing anywhere between those two points?"

"Yes, although the parents have also reported that the family boat is missing. The coast guard had actually been looking in the waters of Lake Huron in the event that the boat had somehow been scuppered."

Ray shook his head. "But he ended up here."

"Indeed so." Fraser paused. "The family are entertaining the notion that perhaps he could have been kidnapped for ransom, although given the nature of his death and the fact that in over a week no ransom note had been issued, I find that unlikely."

"Me too."

"I have to confess, however, that in quashing that hypothesis, I have no notion of another motive, or why the victim ended up so far from home in the first place."

Vecchio waved the report, a thoughtful look on his face. "I think the autopsy might be helpful there, Fraser. But you're not going to like it."

Fraser raised an eyebrow and took the sheaf of paper that Vecchio passed to him, scanning through it as the detective explained.

"Cause of death was, of course, stabbing – but the coroner also found some other pretty interesting findings."

"Cocaine," read Fraser, looking up at Ray in surprise. "It says here the examiner found traces under his fingernails."

"That's right – though none in his bloodstream, so he hadn't been using. Now, just hear me out here," said Vecchio earnestly, leaning forward in his chair, "and like I said, you're not going to like this. But what if this kid was smuggling?"

"Smuggling cocaine? Across the border from Canada?"

"Right. His family's got a boat, they've got a house on the shore of one of the lakes…"

"This is a huge leap, Ray," Fraser cautioned.

"I know, and I know there's no evidence. But I'm just theorising right now. The Chicago PD know that this city is the hub for a drugs ring that's been flooding the northern States with cocaine. Right now, we're gearing up to bust a guy known as the Jardiniere, who we know is the baron in these parts. But we haven't been able to work out where his supply is coming from. At first we thought it was coming through Detroit, but the PD there can't find anything to support that. So we figured it was coming across Lake Michigan from Canada, possibly from his old mob buddies in Montreal. What if this kid is the answer?"

"You think Caleb Frobisher was using his family's sailing boat to smuggle cocaine to Chicago? Ray, even as a casual theory, that's wild. I don't even know if a small boat could negotiate the lakes that far."

"But think about it. As a theory it's possible, right? The drugs are coming into the city by the water. We find a kid who's been missing for a week along with a boat, and he winds up murdered in a back alley close to Jardinere's crib with cocaine under his fingernails? You think that's all just coincidence?"

Fraser looked at Ray thoughtfully. "But what motive would he have for smuggling drugs? He appears to have had everything one could ask for."

"What do you give the rich kid who's got everything?" Ray shrugged. "Gotta have something to excite you when you're 17. If you've already got everything you want from your parents, maybe you start looking for something they can't give you."

"Either way, I'm going to have to report the drug traces found on the body to Inspector Thatcher." Fraser sighed. "It's not going to improve her mood any, I can tell you that."

Ray's face contorted into a brief jeer. "Oh, I'm quaking. The lady-in-red is going to throw a tantrum. Well, let me tell _you_, Fraser, that I think I'm right. And I don't care how much money his folks have, I'm going to prove it."

"And if it turns out that the boy was an innocent victim, Ray?" asked Fraser mildly, with a touch of reproach in his voice for Vecchio's harsh attitude. "What will you say to the grieving parents then?"

"Yeah, yeah, okay," said Vecchio, slightly chastened. "I'll keep my opinion to myself for now. But I bet you anything that I'm right. I've just got to find the other pieces of the puzzle. There's another link out there somewhere, I know it."

…

"You've got to be kidding me."

"No, sir, I'm afraid not."

Meg covered her eyes with both hands and pressed hard. How much worse was this day going to get? She couldn't believe she had to have another conversation with Commissioner Turner, this time to tell him that his friends' beloved boy was not only murdered but that he seemed to have had some connection to drugs. The inference being that perhaps he wasn't the innocent bystander that they had first supposed.

"There was no trace of the drug in his blood stream," Fraser said, somewhat too gently for Meg's comfort. "There may be a rational explanation for the drug being present. That area of town…"

"Yes, Fraser, thank you." She dropped her hands to her sides and stepped away from him. "I'm aware that there may be other explanations. What I want to know is why you aren't out there looking for them."

There was a pause before Fraser answered her, and Meg felt the familiar, infuriating combination of guilt at her reaction and annoyance at his delay. Why couldn't he just go away, go far, i far /i away? Perhaps she should consider putting him in for a transfer, although then she'd have to explain her reasons – to herself, if no-one else. Her more rational self was tapping her on the shoulder, mumbling about doing herself and her sex a disservice, but for some reason Meg never could listen to that particular voice.

"I shall be returning to the police precinct shortly, sir," Fraser said finally, "unless there is any way I can be of help to you here."

"The most help you can give me is by finding out why one of Toronto's finest has just been murdered in a Chicago back alley," she snapped, "and it would be even more helpful if that explanation exonerated him from any wrongdoing, since that may just prevent me being transferred to Iqaluit!"

"They can't hold you responsible for what happened to this citizen, ma'am," offered the Mountie, voice still irritatingly balanced despite her unwarranted outburst. "We will find the killer and get to the bottom of what Frobisher was doing here, whatever truth that uncovers. No one can ask for more than that from you."

"Your naivety would, under other circumstances, be quite touching," she said scathingly, "but right now it's more likely to get me fired. Please just go and do your job and I'll try and do mine without bringing the commissioner's wrath down on my head. Although I suspect that's impossible."

Fraser, defeated by her sharp tongue, nodded and left the room. Meg sighed, leaning against her old hardwood desk for support. How was she going to break this news to Toronto? Did she in fact have to break the news at all? Perhaps if she could delay, Fraser and Vecchio would have something more concrete, either way? She knew already, of course, that such tactics would not work. The commissioner was expecting daily updates, and in any case, with the autopsy complete and the cause of death established, the body would shortly be making its way back across the border to Toronto. Delaying might perhaps buy her a day of peace, but no more.

Resigning herself to a dressing-down, she picked up the phone and dialled the commissioner's number. There was a pause on the other end as his secretary transferred the call, and then all too quickly Meg heard a brusque, booming voice in her ear.

"Inspector Thatcher! I wasn't expecting to hear from you so soon. Do I take it you have new information already?"

"Good afternoon, sir. I do have some information that I felt it necessary to update you with," began Meg with a wince. "Firstly, and most importantly, the body has been autopsied and should be clear to travel in two days."

"Good, good. Not that having the poor boy's body back will really help ease the pain, but if the Frobisher's can start organizing a funeral, that should be something."

"Yes sir," said Meg faintly, clearing her throat. "Sir, there is something more – of a rather delicate nature – that I have to report."

"Oh?"

She took a deep breath. "According to the autopsy, the medical examiner found traces of the drug cocaine under Frobisher's fingernails. Now, we are obviously pursuing all lines of enquiry…" Meg paused, but there was silence from the other end of the line, "but I'm afraid that we will have to enquire into the victim's known personal habits, sir."

The silence endured for another few minutes. Meg was just thinking about whether she should say something into it when Turner broke the void with a voice that had grown colder.

"I am sure I can vouch for the boy when I say he had nothing whatsoever to do with drugs, Thatcher," said Turner icily. "We're talking about a good boy from a good – no, not just good, excellent – family. What need would he have to involve himself in something that would jeopardise his future? He was planning to study law. Really, for you to even suggest such a thing is an insult."

"I am in no way accusing the victim of anything untoward," said Meg. "But you must understand that, with the presence of this substance found on the body, that we have to ask these questions."

"Well, I hope that you employ plenty of tact when you ask the family. Which you can do when you accompany the body back here as soon as it is released."

"Of course, sir." An air of resignation settled upon her once more. It looked like Turner hadn't changed his mind about making her visit Toronto in person. "We are doing our utmost to get to the bottom of this, and we won't rest until Frobisher's killer is caught. You can rest assured that…"

"Yes, yes," Turner cut her off brusquely. "Just get on with it, Thatcher. And I'm absolutely sure that you will find another explanation for the presence of that substance on the boy's body."

"I am hopeful that that is the case sir, but –"

"No 'buts,' Thatcher, I am sure – especially when you meet and talk with his parents – that you can see what a fine young man he was."

Meg sighed inwardly. "Yes sir, I don't doubt it."

"Well, I'll leave you to get on with it then, Inspector," Turner said cheerfully, "I'll see when you arrive here. We will make sure you and your team are given the full support of the Toronto division."

"Team?" Meg muttered faintly.

"Of course. I assume that you are putting all the resources available to you into this investigation?"

"Of course sir," she replied, thinking quickly, "However, in order to maximise their effectiveness, I will be bringing only one Constable with me to Toronto. I will leave the rest of the team here investigating all possible leads in Chicago."

"Makes sense to me," Turner agreed. "Keep me posted as to your arrival, Inspector."

"Yes sir. Goodbye."

Meg replaced the receiver and sighed. Well, this week was certainly going to be interesting. Visiting Toronto with Fraser? It could go one of two ways, she guessed. Either she would explode from excessive irritation, or whatever it was that rubbed her up the wrong way about the man would finally work itself out.

And somewhere along the way, maybe they'd be lucky enough to find out that the victim really was completely innocent.

…

Continued in 4/10. Feedback welcome! Thanks for reading!

…


	4. Chapter 4

**Underneath**

…

**4/10**

**Author's note:** Sorry there hasn't been much Fraser/Vecchio interaction so far – there will be, promise. This is also quite angsty, more so than I thought it would be. Thanks to the people that have left me comments – I haven't replied individually, but I am very glad you are enjoying it.

…

Diefenbaker cocked his head on one side and watched from the doorway as Fraser packed. The Mountie laboured under the half-wolf's gaze, studiously ignoring the accusation in his four-legged companion's eyes.

"There's no need to look at me like that," he said finally. "You know I don't have any choice but to go, and in this instance I would prefer you to stay here in Chicago with Ray. Anyway, you hate flying."

Diefenbaker yipped reproachfully, watching as Fraser carefully folded two spare red serge jackets and stored them in his waiting holdall.

"Of course I understand the concept of free will, and you know that under normal circumstances I would be more than happy to allow you to exercise said free will. However, in light of the circumstances surrounding my trip to Toronto, I'm inclined to believe in this case that I should put my foot down. Anyway, you know that if you're in Ray's care, you'll get spoiled rotten by Francesca."

The wolf tipped his head, and even though Fraser knew he couldn't listen to what he was saying, it looked for all the world as if Diefenbaker were acknowledging the point.

"Anyway," Fraser added, as he zipped up the bag, "I think Inspector Thatcher would appreciate you remaining here. She's under a lot of pressure with this case, and any distractions are likely to be unwelcome. Whereas I'm sure Ray will appreciate any help you can give him here in Chicago. Besides which," the Constable continued, hoisting his bag over his shoulder, "We are unlikely to be away longer than two days. I'm sure you can do without me for that long."

Diefenbaker yipped again, and remained resolutely seated on his haunches as Fraser walked past him and out of the room. Pausing, the Mountie looked back and shrugged.

"There's no point sulking, you know. Make the best of it, and I'll be back before you know it."

The wolf whined a little before apparently deciding not to push it any further. He got up and trotted past Fraser, who followed him down the hallway. It was two days after Ray had revealed the results of the autopsy. Fraser had been surprised when Thatcher informed him that he would be accompanying Frobisher's body with her to Toronto and continuing a parallel investigation there, but in retrospect he supposed it made sense. Figuring out the mystery of how the boy ended up in Chicago would likely begin with understanding his movements at home. It would also help them build a picture of his home life, essential in uncovering the wider reasons – if indeed there were any – of his death.

Fraser couldn't help but be a little apprehensive about traveling so far outside his accustomed environs in the company of Inspector Thatcher. He had tried to shake the anxiety ever since she'd called him into her office the previous morning and told him to be ready to embark at 10am today. They had worked together before, of course, but usually in conjunction with the CPD, or other members of the RCMP. He was, he had to admit, a little dubious about how they would work together one-on-one, so far from the Consulate. For no reason he had ever been able to understand – and although he tried every which way he could to avoid doing so – he simply seemed to infuriate the Inspector with every action he took. And after their – his – brief indiscretion atop that runaway train, things had become worse. She couldn't seem to be able to stand being in the same room as him anymore, let alone address him with anything other than annoyance.

Looking back, Fraser deeply regretted ever taking that step towards her, regretted ever leaning in to kiss her as he had done. He should have known it was a line he was never meant to cross, and definitely not what she'd had in mind when she'd demanded to know, in a roundabout way, what he truly thought of her. She'd responded, but afterwards, in the face of the anger that had grown in her upon their return to Chicago, Fraser realized how wrong he had been. She'd been shaken by the turn of events on the train, he'd known that even at the time – Thatcher had poured her all into organizing the RCMP celebration, and all her energies had been focused on the mammoth task of getting all those horses and riders to their destination in pristine, timely fashion. The last thing she'd expected was to find all her charges drugged, the train hijacked, and the fate of North America in her hands. And then, in the one moment of weakness she'd ever shown him, when she'd wanted reassurance that the strength she would use to overcome the situation did not make her as isolated as she clearly felt, he had lost the tight grip he'd held on his emotions and taken advantage – however briefly. It wasn't something he was proud of, and it seemed that she would never forgive him. Maybe it was what he deserved. She'd tried to lean on him, just once, and he'd failed to live up to her expectations. He'd vowed it would never happen again, but he feared it was too late. Closing that gap between them had undone the little and hard-fought good will she had been developing towards him. They were each too professional to let it affect them solving this case, but he knew it would be uncomfortable.

"Fraser?"

The voice shook him out of his reverie, and looking up he realized the object of his thoughts was standing at the end of the hallway, looking at him strangely. No doubt she was wondering why he was standing there idly, staring into space.

"Good morning, sir," he said quietly, pulling his shoulders square but failing to inject the levity he usually managed to summon. "I shall be ready to depart when you are."

She nodded, dark eyes marked with subdued anxiety as she checked her watch. "The body is already on its way to the airport. We will supervise its loading before we board. Turnbull has ordered a driver for 10am sharp. The flight leaves at 11.30."

Fraser gestured to the small case she carried, "Allow me, sir."

To his surprise, for he was expecting the customary rebuttal, Thatcher absently held out the case, a faint frown creasing her features. Clearly it wasn't just him that was preoccupied this morning. She walked past him, and his stomach clenched a little as the smell of her caught him by surprise.

"I just need to check some emails," she muttered, thoughts clearly elsewhere, "I'll be ready when the car arrives."

He nodded, silently, as she shut the door behind her. Maybe silence was where they would find their common ground.

…

Two hours later, the two officers stood side by side on the concourse of O'Hare airport, watching solemnly as Frobisher's coffin was loaded into the plane's cargo hold. Meg was glad that the low rim of her regulation cap kept her hair from flying in her eyes, for the Windy City was living up to its name. She must get it cut. She'd been thinking recently about going for something much shorter, more professional. A short haircut helped command respect, spoke of no-nonsense. That was the image she should be projecting, but here she was, hair blowing in the wind like a girl's. Another personal flaw that could be solved easily enough. She just had to make it happen.

Meg glanced at Fraser, standing beside her. His gaze held straight, waiting for her to give go ahead to board the aircraft once the body had been loaded. Looking over, she saw the crew leader nod, and knew that everything was in place. Meg shut her eyes briefly. She wasn't looking forward to this trip. There was a knot of anxiety tied in her gut. Everything felt wrong, from the investigation to the atmosphere between herself and Fraser. But there was nothing to be done but duty, and duty was forcing her to Toronto, whatever she would find there.

"We can board, Constable."

"Yes, sir."

Entering the already full aircraft, they found their seats as the cabin crew prepared for takeoff. They were flying business class, a small luxury that Meg felt grateful for as she buckled herself in. The seats were wider than the cramped economy class, and although the flight was barely more than two hours, Meg never really enjoyed flying. How even the shortest flight could be so tiring she'd never understand. She took the window seat, leaning against the window to watch as the aircraft moved down the runway towards take off. Watching the city spiral away beneath her was the most exhilaration she'd felt in weeks, and as the land spread out before her, larger and larger in her vision, Meg felt a paradoxical reassurance in the fact of her insignificance. _Put your fist into a bucket of water, take it out again… and that's the mark we make upon the world. There while we remain, gone once we are gone._

Leaning back in her seat again as the aircraft banked over Lake Michigan, Meg looked around to find Fraser watching her. He smiled briefly, uncertainly, as she met his eyes, but didn't break the contact, which surprised her.

"If I may ask, sir, are you quite alright? I know this case is causing problems… but you seem preoccupied, even so."

Meg looked down at her crossed legs, trousered in the heavy wool of her official uniform. She was surprised once again. Usually he wouldn't ask a question that could so easily garner an answer that flew close to personal borders. She suddenly felt tired again, her head a heavy weight on her shoulders. She wanted to rest it against the window and sleep, but what would that say to Fraser, sitting there so upright and proper? Meg realized she didn't even have the energy to feel her usual anger.

"I'm fine, Constable. Just a little tired. I have…" she hesitated to add this, "a few personal issues on my mind. I can assure you that it will not affect my pursuance of this case."

"I know that, ma'am. If there is anything I can do…" She looked at him as he tailed off. Possibly he was regretting his offer even as he formulated it.

"Thank you, Fraser, but that won't be necessary," she said stiffly, squaring her shoulders. She hadn't meant to sound so distant, but she couldn't bring herself to be anything else.

He nodded, taking her tone to be an end to the conversation, and reached to take two magazines from the holder in front of them. Handing one over silently without looking at her, he began to read. Something pricked at the back of Meg's eyes, but she blinked the sensation away and flicked open a page. Feeling him next to her, his shoulder higher than her own, gave her the sudden desire to rest her head on his arm and sleep. It was an unexpected impulse that she had no problem suppressing, but it shocked her nonetheless. She had to get a grip. This was so unlike her. It was her own fault, her own emotional state making her vulnerable. If there was one thing Meg Thatcher hated it was feeling vulnerable.

…

Fraser finished the article he was reading, and rested the journal on his lap, intending to call for some water. Glancing at the Inspector, he realized she had drifted off to sleep, hands gripping the magazine he had passed to her. Even in sleep she looked anxious, and now that he was able to look at her without fear of being caught, the Mountie saw just how dark the shadows under her eyes had become. Was she sleeping at all? Most likely not, since she had must have fallen asleep soon after they had taken off. Having removed her cap, her dark hair fell around her face. There were lines around her eyes and mouth, signs of strain that he'd never noticed before. Her face, in slumber, betrayed a vulnerability she never showed when awake. He wondered again what the problem was. She'd hinted at a personal issue, and he remembered the overnight bag she had arrived with on Monday morning. He tried not to think about the likeliest possibility – a love affair gone wrong. For one thing, it was not his place, and for another, for her to be so disturbed by a break up, it must have been unwanted on her part. And he really didn't want to think about that.

Removing his gaze from her face, he rubbed his eyes and stood up. It'd be better once they started work on the case in Toronto. Less distractions of a personal nature, more duty to focus on.

He left Inspector Thatcher asleep in her chair and took a short walk.

…

Continued in 5/10. Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Underneath

…

5/10

…

**Author's note:** Please see part one for summary, disclaimers and warnings. I'm beginning to think that this is going to be longer than 10 parts, which is not good for my discipline. It's also become more about Fraser and Thatcher than about the investigation… Sorry – I shall speed it up! Hope you enjoy it anyway.

….

The rain was still drizzling over the Chicago skyline, gray clouds weighing heavily over the city's 'scrapers. Ray Vecchio sat in his car, parked outside the Devi Jewellers store on West Devon Avenue. In one hand, he clutched a half-eaten hot dog, and in the other he twirled the ring they'd found on Frobisher's body.

"You know what, Diefenbaker?" Ray asked the wolf, sat next to him in the passenger seat, deeply engrossed in his own hot dog, "Call me crazy, but I think this ring might be the key to this whole thing. I mean, that and the drugs."

Diefenbaker took no notice. Ray shrugged. The wolf was perfectly happy with his hot dog – something Fraser would never have given him. But hey, everyone deserved a treat sometime, right? Vecchio wouldn't usually have pegged himself as an animal person, but somehow Diefenbaker was different. Francesca had already brushed the wolf's coat to a high shine. She'd also tried to tie a red bow around his neck. Ray, naturally, objected not only for himself – as if he'd be seen around Chicago with a prettied-up wolf – but also on Dief's behalf. Although to be fair, Fraser's canine companion seemed to have the temper of a saint.

Taking the last bite of his snack, Ray put the ring back in its pouch and opened the door, deftly throwing the wrapper in a nearby trash can.

"Come on, Dief, let's see if these guys can tell us anything about this little sparkler."

The shop was quiet, with just one couple looking over a tray of engagement rings in the corner when the detective and his companion entered the room. Vecchio saw the manager approach, eyebrows raised, as he saw Diefenbaker. Ray had to admit he probably wasn't dressed to look as if he belonged in such a classy joint, either. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his Chicago PD badge and waved it in the guy's face. Reassured, the manager smiled slightly.

"Officer, what can I do for you?"

Walking over to one of the many jewellery counters, Ray pulled the little velvet pouch out of his pocket and tipped the ring on to the glass.

"We found this on the body of a dead teenager a couple of nights ago," he explained, as the jeweller picked the ring up and examined it. "I just wondered if you could tell me anything useful about it?"

"Define useful, detective," the manager suggested.

"I don't know – where it was made, how old it is, something like that?"

The manager raised his eyebrows again and looked at Vecchio over the edge of his glasses. "You know, it's a little-known fact that on average, a piece of jewellery will change hands around five times during its lifespan."

"Is that so?"

"It is. So I'm not sure if telling you about this ring's origins will be of any use at all." As Ray watched, he took off his glasses and pressed a jeweller's magnifier to his eye.

"Well, what's it worth then? That might be useful."

The manager was silent for several minutes, examining the hallmark carefully.

"Well, it's officially an antique," he opined. "The date reads 1880. The diamond is cut as an old-style brilliant, and is probably around a ¼ carat. The gold is 18 carat, and the ring bears the British lion hallmark. It's a simple, traditional engagement ring. I'd have to check the maker, but my instincts tell me that's irrelevant for your investigation."

"It's antique? So it's probably worth quite a bit?"

"Not really – at least, not to a dealer like me. Second-hand jewellery generally sells for weight, unless it's a piece of truly exceptional quality." He removed his glass, and shrugged at Vecchio. "I'm sorry, I doubt I've been much help."

Vecchio shrugged, though he was disappointed nonetheless. He'd been sure this would give him a lead – one of the few left in Chicago now that Benny and the Dragon Lady had chased the ones in Toronto.

"Thanks anyway," he said, taking the ring back and pocketing the pouch.

"This is merely a guess," the manager added, "but in my experience such items are passed through families. Old engagement rings – especially ones so traditional in style – are unlikely to be bought second hand. But for sentimental reasons, they're often inherited and kept."

Ray nodded, "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The manager smiled again, nodding goodbye to the detective as Vecchio and Diefenbaker exited onto the street.

…

Fraser stood beside Inspector Thatcher on the wide porch of the Frobisher's home. It was palatial, and that was putting it mildly. Behind them, the fresh green of a well-kept lawn spread towards the outer fence, beyond which burbled the frenetic city of Toronto.

The Inspector pressed the bell again before stepping back into line next to him. Two cars were parked in the nearby open garage, but that didn't mean that anyone was home. It was clear that the Frobisher's lacked for nothing. Except their son…

Beside him, Thatcher moved uncomfortably. She'd been quiet ever since they'd left the RCMP headquarters elsewhere in the city. Fraser had rarely seen her so subdued as in Turner's office, though granted, the Commissioner hadn't been easy on her. Several times, Fraser had had to bite his lip to stop himself intervening on her behalf – an interruption that he knew would have proved unpopular on both sides. But still, Commissioner Turner was being more than a little unreasonable. He'd drilled them both in how they should behave for this interview, with Frobisher's parents, as if both of them were fresh recruits.

In front of them, the door opened, and both Officers stood a little straighter. The housekeeper ushered them through. The Frobishers had clearly been clearly been expecting their arrival – ­both sat stiffly in a formal room overlooking a large rose garden. Caleb's mother, Thea, looked tearful, and held an oversized tissue crushed in her hand. Her husband, Dom, looked forbidding and unapproachable. Fraser's misgivings about this meeting grew as he surveyed the scene, framed by the tense cast of Meg Thatcher's shoulders.

Dom Frobisher stood up as they entered the room, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets in a gesture of defiance and anger.

"Inspector Thatcher, I presume," he said, nodding at her stiffly.

"Yes, sir – and allow me to introduce Constable Benton Fraser. He is assisting me with the investigation into your son's murder."

From the couch, Thea Frobisher sobbed quietly. Her husband moved to place his hands on her shoulders.

"You understand that this is causing us a huge amount of pain."

"Of course, sir," Thatcher's tones were businesslike, but still gentle with sympathy. "I'm sorry that we have to intrude at this time, but we have to ask you certain… questions about Caleb. We are doing our utmost to track his killer."

"From what I hear from Commissioner Turner, what you're trying to do is implicate him in some sort of drug scandal," Frobisher said shortly, accompanied by his wife's quiet but insistent tears.

"That's not so at all, sir. But we do need to get to the bottom of why your son was in Chicago. He was found in a fairly disreputable area of the city, and the autopsy showed the presence of a controlled substance on his person."

"But not, as I understand it, in his bloodstream," Frobisher interjected, still curt.

"No, there was no indication that he had been using the drug, at least not recently," Thatcher agreed. She paused, glancing at Fraser before continuing. "Mr. Frobisher, do you have any idea why your son would have been in Chicago?"

"None at all. We have no connections to the city – he has no friends or relatives there. Which leads us to believe that he was taken there against his will."

"There was no indication that he had been mistreated prior to the blows that killed him," interjected Fraser.

It was Thea Frobisher's turn to speak up as she said, "Well, they would have kept him safe if they'd been intending to ransom him, wouldn't they, Constable? We are a wealthy family, with strong political and economic connections."

"But the fact that you received no demands in order for your son to be returned suggests that it wasn't kidnap."

The woman, clearly broken by her experiences, sank back into the couch again, defeated.

"We understand that Caleb had spent the weekend in your house in Port Elgin, is that correct?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Did he often stay there alone?"

"Yes, more and more in the last year or so. He would take his car and drive up there, sometimes with friends but mostly alone, to study. He said it was more conducive than being in the city."

"He drove his car?" Fraser asked.

"Yes, it's still there – we haven't retrieved it yet. They say it's clear now… after the forensics…" He tailed off.

Thatcher nodded. "And you have a boat, too, I understand, that has recently gone missing?"

"Yes - in fact, until we heard the terrible news, we thought… he had drowned in Lake Huron."

"It's a boat that's easy to skipper alone?"

"Not necessarily easy, but it can be done, at least on short journeys. I taught Caleb to sail almost before he could walk, and he's used to the lake."

"And he was definitely alone this time?" Thatcher queried.

"Yes. It was quite a last minute decision of his to go up last weekend. He just called me on the Friday at work and said he'd be away at the lake for a few days." Frobisher shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "If I'd known that was the last time we'd ever speak…"

The Inspector let the pause drag for a respectful period, before asking gently, "And that wasn't unusual? Him deciding to go off at the last minute?"

Frobisher shook his head. "No. I didn't think anything of it. He'd quite often just take himself off. We never stopped him – he had an adventurous spirit."

There was another pause, into which Fraser was compelled to ask, "Mr. Frobisher – is it possible for a boat such as yours to negotiate the waters through the Mackinac Strait? And then perhaps, to carry on across Lake Michigan towards Chicago?"

The pause spread into outright silence. Thatcher looked at him askance, but said nothing.

"Wait a minute – you think that Caleb somehow managed to take the boat to Chicago?" Frobisher uttered a brief, strained laugh. "You don't sail, do you, Constable?"

"Not often, no."

"In the first place, why on Earth would he do that? It would take hours. And secondly, no – there's no way he could skipper the boat all that way alone."

"But it is possible to sail the boat that far?" Fraser asked, persistent.

"Yes, I suppose so, but like I've already told you – not alone."

"Perhaps we could take the registration details of your boat? If we can locate it, it may help with our investigation."

"Yes, I can do that."

"Thank you kindly."

"Would you also be able to give us telephone numbers for any of his friends?" Thatcher asked. "We would like to build up a picture of his life here in Toronto, in the hope that it will tell us a little about him."

"Who better to tell you about him than us, his parents?"

"With respect, sir, it's often a young person's peers who can give a wider picture of their lives."

Frobisher nodded grudgingly. "I suppose you're right. Anne will look up a list of names for you. Do you want to see his room?"

…

It was early evening before the two Mounties retired to the hotel they had been assigned by the RCMP. It was modest, but admirably equipped, and Meg was happy to sink into the hot bath she drew for herself as soon as they checked in. Fraser's room was next door, and they had arranged to meet for a meal to discuss the day's findings once they'd had a chance to wind down. It had been a long day – first the flight and that strained interlude with Fraser, followed by a difficult audience with Turner and then the parent's interview. She'd found herself grateful that Fraser had been there, though he'd said little at either meeting. He had brought up the issue of the boat's range though, which was interesting. What had prompted that? She'd have to ask him later.

The hot water soothed her tired muscles, though letting go of the tension was painful. Meg Thatcher wasn't used to relaxing, and hadn't done so for quite some time. Even as she lay there, things she'd been suppressing throughout the day flooded back into her consciousness. Dragging her hands through her wet hair, Meg shut her eyes and sighed. She'd have to call home as soon as she got out of the bath. Her cell phone, which Meg had switched off during her interviews with Turner and the parents, had shown no missed calls, which was a relief, but her daily call to Jo was overdue.

Opening her eyes again, she stared at the ceiling. She had to call. And yet, right now… Wouldn't it be wonderful to wind back the clock, pretend that none of this was happening? That everything was fine, and that the entire world hadn't shifted on its axis while she wasn't paying attention. But she knew she was being selfish. Jo needed her now, more than ever before.

Sitting up, all thoughts of relaxation forgotten, Meg stepped out of the bath, wrapped herself in a towel, and went to make the call.

…

TBC 6/10. Thanks for reading – feedback welcome!

….


	6. Chapter 6

**Underneath**

**6/10**

…

**Author's Note: **Please see part one for summary, disclaimer and warnings. Sorry that the last two chapters have been a little flabby. I think this one is a little, too. Currently in the middle of moving jobs and my brain is a bit frazzled… Will try harder. Hope you're still enjoying it, at least a little.

…

Fraser picked up the wireless phone in his room and slid open the door to his balcony. It was warmer here in Toronto than it had been in Chicago, and a haze hung in the sky as the sun set. Dusk had come swiftly and as he watched, the city lights grew stronger in the growing darkness.

Dialling Ray's number, Fraser leant on the balcony rail. He'd showered soon after he and Inspector Thatcher had returned to the hotel, and thoughts of the case had been bouncing around his head every since. This was more complicated then any of them had so far realized, he was convinced of it, but at the moment he couldn't find the thread that would take them that extra step into clarity. Perhaps Ray's investigations were going more smoothly.

"Vecchio."

"Ray, it's me."

"Benny, hey. How's it going?"

"Not particularly well, to tell you the truth. I was hoping you'd have something enlightening to tell me."

"Nope, sorry. Dief and I have been trawling the city, and we've come up with zip. Nada. Zilch. Nothing."

"That's a pity."

"Yeah. The only thing that could be classed as remotely helpful came from the jeweller."

"Really?"

"Don't get your hopes up. He just said that in his experience, a ring like that could have been an heirloom or something."

"Interesting. Perhaps I should ask Mrs. Frobisher if she is missing a ring."

"It's something, I guess. So you and the Dragon Lady aren't coming up with much either, huh?"

"Not really. Tomorrow may prove more productive. I do have one suggestion for your own investigation, however."

"Really? What's that?"

"Something is making me suspect that we are going to discover that Caleb Frobisher was not alone in Chicago."

"Well, that would explain the ring."

"Yes – and it could also explain his method arriving in the city. May I suggest that you search the port for a boat with this registration – do you have a pen?"

"Yeah, go ahead," said Vecchio, remaining silent on the line as he jotted down the number Fraser reeled off. "And you think the boat might be here?"

"Well, I think it's worth conducting a search, Ray. According to Dom Frobisher, the family boat does have enough range to reach navigate to Chicago."

"I knew it. Their little golden boy was a smuggler!" Fraser could almost see his friend punching the air as he said it.

"Don't be too sure," Fraser cautioned. "I think there are a few aspects of this case that haven't yet come to light. Even if there was someone with him – which there would have to have been if the boat did sail that far – then I've got no idea who that person could be."

"Well, we'll find the boat if it's there. It'll be interesting to see what's aboard it when we do."

"Is Diefenbaker behaving himself?"

"He's cool. You know Dief."

"I do indeed, Ray. Don't let Francesca give him too many treats. Last time it took me weeks to wean him off Krispy Kremes."

"Don't worry, I won't. How are you and the Dragon Lady getting on? She's not giving you too much of a hard time, is she?"

Fraser glanced towards the balcony adjoining his. Inspector Thatcher's door was open. "Everything's fine," he said quietly.

"Yeah, sure it is. I don't know what it is with you. She could make you stand sentry naked in winter and you'd still think she was just doing her duty."

"Well, she is, Ray."

"I wonder if you'd say the same if she didn't have big brown eyes and a body like…"

"Ray," Fraser warned sharply, cutting him off.

"Yeah, yeah. I know, you're too much of a gentleman to notice all the good stuff. Well, my beer's getting warm. Thanks for the tip about the boat. Call me if you find out anything else."

"You too. Good luck."

Fraser hung up the phone and leant against the railing. Night had fallen completely now, and the city lights glinted in his vision.

"He was talking about me, wasn't he?"

Fraser turned in surprise to find Inspector Thatcher leaning in the doorway of her balcony, barefoot and wrapped in one of the hotel's thick bathrobes. Her hair was wet but drying in thick waves around her face, which was pale. Her eyes, though dry, looked red with recent tears. He searched for something to say.

"We were sharing notes on the case, sir. Detective Vecchio asked whether we had advanced our investigation."

She looked at him with one eyebrow raised. "A lie of omission is still a lie, Constable."

Fraser thought it best not to answer, and instead watched as she stepped further onto the balcony.

"Vecchio doesn't like me," she said, matter-of-factly.

"I don't think that's true, sir," Fraser said after another moment's surprise. "There isn't much call for either of you to get to know each other…"

She smiled wryly, leaning over the balcony to stare at the traffic below. "You don't have to soften the blow, Fraser, I'm used to it. Most people don't like me."

Nonplussed, Fraser continued to watch as she pushed her hair behind her ears.

"It never used to bother me," Thatcher continued, "That's just life, isn't it? But then, a lot of things never used to bother me." She gave a short, bitter laugh.

"Ma'am…" concerned, he stepped closer to the low dividing wall between them. "If there's something I can do..."

Thatcher looked across at him, pale face luminous in the dark, eyes unreadable. "No, Fraser, there's nothing you can do. I just…" She stopped, looking down at her hands. "My best friend is dying of cancer," she said, finally. "She's the same age as me, has a great husband, has two beautiful children… You think you have all the time in the world, you think that you know what matters in life, you think that you have time. And then you realize that maybe you have it all backwards… and you have none of the things that matter, none of the things you want, and it's too late to do anything because you've already lost them." Swallowing, she paused and looked up again. "I call her every night and she just gets further and further away. One day I'll call and she won't even know who I am. I- Why am I telling you this?"

He blinked, trying to ride the tide of her sudden outpouring. "Because you know I'll listen, ma'am." he said quietly after a moment.

Her lips twitched unhappily, and her tone was bitter when she said, "Because you _have_ to listen to your superior officer."

"No, that's not –" he paused, and then said softly, "That isn't it." _And you know it_, he added silently.

Thatcher looked at him for a long moment. Somewhere in the city a siren wailed, florescent light splashing on the walls below them.

"I wish-" she blurted suddenly, but stopped herself with a sharp shake of her head and a set jaw that spoke of her usual annoyance. "This is ridiculous. We've got work to do. Meet me in the restaurant in 20 minutes. And bring your notes."

She disappeared, sliding the door shut behind her.

…

Ray cursed as he stepped in a puddle and felt the dirty water rise over his ankle. Maybe this was a dumb idea after all. He could have left it till tomorrow, but he'd decided to come down to the port in the dark, instead. He'd been frustrated at his lack of progress on the case, and when Fraser had given him the lead on the boat, he'd wanted to follow it up immediately.

In front of him, Diefenbaker turned to find out what the delay was. His pale coat shone in the beam from Ray's flashlight, his wolfish eyes reflecting the light. The wolf yipped a little, quietly.

"Yeah, yeah," grumbled Vecchio. "It's alright for you, you've got four feet to help you keep your balance." Standing gingerly on one leg, he pulled off his shoe and shook it.

To his left, the port spread out in an arc, lit even this late at night with the warning and navigation lights of the many boats making harbor in Chicago. Boats of all sizes were moored in slips for the night, tankers and schooners and smaller yachts, making a patchwork of the murky water that lapped between their sterns. Replacing his footwear, Ray wondered where to start. He should have brought some rookie to help…

"Okay, Dief. We're looking for something called a Chris Craft Roamer, serial number…" Ray angled his light onto the piece of paper in his hand, "YW# 30304-686312. No name written here…" Looking up, he glanced around with a sigh. "I don't even know what one of these is supposed to look like. I guess it's got to be quite small, right?"

Diefenbaker barked once, and trotted off.

"Oh, and you think you can just go straight to it, do you?" Ray called, suddenly feeling belligerent. His sock was wet, and suddenly he just wanted to be back home in front of a plate of Ma's stew. "What would you know, anyway? You're a wolf!"

Diefenbaker disappeared around a curve in the bay. Ray, pocketing the paper with the registration number written on it, sighed again and trailed along behind the wolf. As he turned the corner, more boats spread out before him in a seemingly never-ending curve. In the gloom, he could make out Diefenbaker sitting patiently in front of one in particular, waiting for him to catch up.

"That can't possibly be it," he said, as he approached. "You're a wolf. You can't read. You're not allowed to be able to read. Plus, you're deaf. So even, if by some stroke of freakish Canadianism, Fraser has managed to get you to understand letters and numbers, you wouldn't have been able to hear me read them out. And I absolutely do not believe you can lip read. Especially in the dark." The detective drew to a halt in front of the boat's bow.

Diefenbaker looked up at him patiently, and yipped again before looking from Ray to the vessel. Ray flicked his torchlight across the boat's gleaming white front. Picked out in black, curling script across the bow was a name – _The Merry Merchant_.

"I can't see a registration number. What makes you think this is it?" he looked down at Diefenbaker. "Listen to me, for God's sake. I can't believe I'm talking to a deaf wolf. Well, I suppose I'd better go and check it out."

Shoving the flashlight in his pocket, he climbed the short ladder on to the deck. The boat was in darkness, and yet Ray found himself tip-toeing along the wooden floor beneath his feet. The boat was small, and he crossed the deck in a few short steps. Pulling out his flashlight again, he leant over the railing and shone the beam upon the stern, looking for the strip of letters and numbers that would be unique to this boat. Slowly, he read them out to himself… Y,W, 3,0,3…

"I don't believe it. How could he possibly know that?" Ray muttered, realizing that Diefenbaker had indeed picked the right boat. Suddenly, the quiet of the after-dark harbor was penetrated by Diefenbaker's barks. He turned, splashing the light of the torch across the "Dief? What is it?"

Out of the corner of his eye Ray saw a dark movement, a jacket flapping as its owner jumped towards him, the glint of something silver raised above their head… and then the length of pipe came down across his neck, hard, too fast for the Detective to stop it…

…and the world faded to black, Dief's frantic barking rushing away down a tunnel of diminishing sound.

…

TBC in 7/10. Thanks for reading! Feedback welcome!

END


	7. Chapter 7

Underneath 7/10

**Author's Note:** Please see part one for summary, disclaimer and warnings. Really sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. Have had terrible computer problems, and coupled with my first week at a new job, it kind of got pushed to the back. I will try and get back on track now, if anyone's still reading!

…

"But you're okay, Ray?" Fraser frowned in concern as he spoke into Inspector Thatcher's cell phone. He sat in the passenger seat of the car they had borrowed from the RCMP car pool. It was 8.30am, and Thatcher was driving.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got a nasty bump on the back of my head," Vecchio answered ruefully. "Good job Dief was with me though. If he hadn't done his Lassie impression with the harbormaster, I would have been there until I woke up – or didn't."

"The doctors have given you the all clear, though?"

"I told you, Fraser, I'm fine. They've patched me up good. Kept me in overnight to check, but they let me out this morning. I'm on my way back to the boat now. Welsh says the search has turned up some interesting stuff."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah – like the harbormaster said, there's definitely been someone living there. He reckoned it was a young girl."

"She'd been there a week, but he didn't report it to anyone?"

"Nah – as he pointed out, she paid on time for the slippage and he'd checked the registration to see if anyone had listed the boat as stolen. They hadn't, so what was there to report?"

"True enough, Ray. But there's no sign of her now?"

"Nope. I guess I scared her off. She's left some stuff behind though, so that might give us a lead."

"Did the harbormaster give you a description?"

"He did, but it could be pretty much any grungy teenage girl you walk past in the street. He said she looked about 16, wore baggy combat pants and baggier t-shirts, usually with a black hoodie with the hood pulled up. He said he hadn't ever had a clear look at her hair, but he thought it was long, and probably dark. Oh, and she had a silver nose-ring. But that's about it."

"He didn't get a name?"

"I've looked at the port log book, which requires a signature each time a captain pays for slippage – she just marked it 'C. Frobisher.'"

"Which, should anyone check, would match the name registered to the boat."

"Right. We'll see if we can get anything off her fingerprints – it might give us a name, if she's got previous. It's something, anyway, and at least we have the boat. What are you up to today?"

"We are just about to start questioning some of Caleb Frobisher's friends," said Fraser, glancing over at Thatcher. She stared at the road ahead. "One of his group of peers said he would be happy to answer some questions if it will help."

"Well, that's something. Maybe they'll know who this girl is."

"Perhaps. We will ask the parents, too. If he had a girlfriend, they would surely have known about it."

"Maybe, although from the description of this girl, I doubt she'd have been the sort the Frobisher's would have wanted for a daughter-in-law."

"I will let you know how our day progresses. I hope you feel better, Ray."

"Ach, I'll be fine. I'll just keep popping the extra-strength aspirin they've given me."

"Right you are."

They hung up as Thatcher pulled to a stop outside a block of apartments. The neighbourhood was not on a par with the Frobisher's home. Litter drifted in the street, and the tightly-packed apartment blocks looked as if they could do with a lick of paint.

Pulling a piece of paper from her pocket, Thatcher checked it. "This is it," she said, nodding at the block they had stopped outside. "Apartment number 12."

Fraser nodded and got out of the car, pulling his cap on as he waited for her to lock the vehicle. Thatcher didn't look at him, leading the way towards the entrance. The Mountie suppressed a sigh. Since her outburst on the balcony the previous evening, Thatcher had clamped down even further, and could barely look at him. Their meal had been strained, to say the least, and he had explained his reasons for asking about how far the boat could travel as succinctly as possible, desperate to get out of her way as quickly as he could. Not because he had been embarrassed by her emotional outpouring earlier in the evening (though she had clearly been) but because he didn't trust himself to keep the distance he'd promised to keep. Where Meg Thatcher was concerned, Fraser found it all to easy to lose his emotional balance, and the last thing he wanted was to cross another line between them. He'd vowed to himself that he'd never put her in that position again, and there was no way he would let her – and by association, himself – down that easily again. She wanted him to be strong, to support her by showing her without words that the way she performed her duties as Inspector was exactly what was needed. And the way he could do that was by being the perfect professional himself, following her orders, speaking only when spoken to, offering no opinions that were not expressly required by her. He would be the upright member of the RCMP that she had always shown herself to be, and in that way, he would offer her all the support he could. That was what she wanted, nothing more – and nothing less. And Fraser was determined that he would be nothing less in her eyes.

Thatcher paused at the security door to the apartment block, brusquely keying in the door number. There was a pause, and a voice crackled over the intercom. The Mounties were expected, having called ahead the previous evening, and the door was soon opened.

The inside of the apartment block was as inauspicious as its exterior, and Fraser listened to the echoing footfalls they created as the two of them ascended the stairs towards number 12. Thatcher treaded far more lightly than he, her small court shoes causing an echo that sounded faint against those caused by his own boots. Squaring his shoulders as they approached the door, Fraser tried to tread more quietly in her wake.

…

Meg stood at the threshold of the door, blood rushing in her ears. She could feel Fraser behind her, his broad shoulders blocking out the light from the meagre window. _You have to focus_, she told herself hopelessly. _You're here to solve this murder case. And once you've done that you can go back to Chicago and lock yourself in your office. Just do your job._

But she couldn't shake the humiliation of the previous evening. What had she been thinking? To stand there in front of a junior office, barely dressed, face dishevelled, and go on about her personal life? And to think of what she'd nearly said… Meg suppressed a shudder. Fraser's face had stayed her tongue. He'd looked as horrified as she later felt, and throughout their entire meal had clearly wanted nothing more than flee from the table at the earliest opportunity – which was exactly what he'd done. She couldn't blame him. Who wanted a superior officer that poured out their heart to them?

Yet part of her, the part that she had put so much effort into hiding securely beneath her anger and annoyance - the part of her that was firmly suppressed whenever it dared to surface, the part of her that flipped her stomach over when she caught him looking at her – the part that couldn't help, when it was late at night and she was home alone with a bottle of wine, thinking of that insane train ride across the plains… that part of her was heartbroken. He didn't want her, then. She'd as good as thrown herself at him (for which she would feel shameful the rest of her life) and he'd run a mile. Well, what did she expect?

The door opened, and Meg forced herself to smile at the youth standing before her. The boy looked about the same age as Caleb Frobisher had been, but obviously had less of the advantages of his peer.

"Come in," he said off-handedly. "Sit down if you can find somewhere."

"It's Nick, isn't it?" Fraser asked.

"Yeah. So you're here about Cal?"

"That's right." The two Mounties moved into the living room, and both took a seat on the old, sagging sofa. Meg looked around, noting that Nick appeared to live on his own. The place looked like a typical teenager's bedroom, spread over the area of an entire apartment. "You live here alone, Nick?" She asked.

He nodded, but didn't elaborate, instead changing the subject. "I was really sorry to hear about Caleb. He was a solid guy."

"We're trying to piece together what happened," Meg explained, brain coalescing into order with a tangible task placed before it. "His parents don't seem to know what he could have been doing in Chicago. Do you have any idea?"

Nick looked at them both suspiciously, as if making a decision. Eventually, he took out a packet of cigarettes and pushed one between his lips, lighting it as he took a seat on the old armchair opposite.

"He didn't say anything to me about going to Chicago last weekend."

"But you're not surprised that he was there? He'd done it before?"

The boy shrugged, avoiding Meg's eyes and staring at the floor. "I think he'd done that run a couple of times before. He liked to sail. It was a bit of a challenge, he said, to go right through Huron and Michigan."

"Was there any particular reason he went to Chicago on these visits?"

"Don't think so. He just liked the water."

There was a pause. Fraser caught Meg's eye, a questioning glance. She nodded at the question and he turned his attention to the youth, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

"Nick, we have evidence that Caleb Frobisher had some connection with drugs. The post mortem found traces on his body. Would you know anything about that?"

Nick shook his head. "Uh uh. Caleb would never take drugs. He wanted to go to law school, said it would screw up his chances of a proper life." He snorted, a slight sound of derision. "He was a good guy, like I said, but he could be stuck up sometimes. His parents have all that money, think it makes them better than the rest of us."

"So he never took cocaine?"

"No."

"But he knew people that did, am I right?"

Nick flicked his eyes up to Fraser's and looked away again. "Everyone knows someone who takes."

"Maybe so – but I'm thinking that he knew someone very close to him that used regularly."

Nick shrugged, but remained silent. Meg watched as the smoke from his cigarette curled patterns in the air. She was interested to see where Fraser's line of questioning was going. He had a way of drawing people out without them realizing they were giving answers.

"Nick, the Chicago Police Department found the Frobisher's boat last night. The harbourmaster said that someone had been living on it for the past week. A young girl. Would you know who she is?"

The boy grimaced. "Look, I don't want to get anyone into trouble."

"If you know something that could pertain to the case, you have a duty to tell us," Fraser cautioned. "If not, you could be aiding and abetting a murderer."

"Judy's not a murderer! She's just –" he stopped, realizing his mistake, and sighed. "The girl's called Judy. She lived here in Toronto for a while. She's a friend of mine, that's how she met Cal."

"And would I be right in thinking she's a heavy drug user?"

Nick sighed. "Yeah. She's just a kid. She doesn't mean any harm – she grew up on the streets on Montreal, she just got into the wrong crowd. Cal thought he could save her, or something. God knows she needed someone to take care of her. But she's - in too deep."

"To deep into what?"

Nick looked at Fraser appraisingly, and shook his head. "I've said too much already. Judy's nothing to do with the murder. She loved Cal. He loved her. I hope she's okay…"

"Well, the Chicago PD are looking for her. She assaulted a police officer."

"That doesn't sound like Judy. She was probably just scared."

"Does she have reason to be?"

Nick set his jaw. "You'll have to ask her – if you find her."

"Don't you want your friend's killer to be found?"

The youth snorted again. "I'd rather you found Judy. With parents like Caleb's I know they'll find the killer – they'll just keep throwing money and weight till they do. But Judy doesn't have anyone. No one's missing her except the police. No one ever tried to make her life better except Cal. And now he's gone, and she's on her own. If she just disappears, I bet no one will even bat an eyelid."

"I will," said Fraser, solemnly. "What's Judy's last name?"

Nick looked at Fraser for a few more seconds before answering. "Fisher. Her name's Judy Fisher."

"Thank you kindly for your help."

The boy stubbed his cigarette out and stood as they prepared to leave. "Look," he said awkwardly. "It's not that I don't want Cal's murderer found. Of course I do… But I don't think, even if you work it out, there will be anything you can do."

"Why's that?"

Nick shrugged. "There are big people with big money on both sides of the law," he said.

…

TBC 8/10. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Underneath 8/10

Please see part 1 for summary, warnings and disclaimer.

**Author's note:**

First of all, to anyone who is still reading this, I'm so terribly sorry that I haven't updated in so long. As I mentioned before, I have started a new job, and things have just been crazy. It's not just a new job, but a new career, and so it's been a big learning curve. I've missed writing this, however, and seem to have my thread back a little, so I'm going to try and finish it in the next month.

…

The cellar was dark, damp trickling down the walls. The sweetish, sickening smell of rot turned the girl's empty stomach. If she'd eaten, she would have puked. The only good side of having been hungry for two days…

Judy crouched on her haunches, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, facing the faint stab of light that dropped through gaps around the cellar's opening several feet above her head. Shuffling slightly in her wet trainers, she tried to find a more comfortable position, all the time keeping her eyes on the hatch above. She didn't think anyone had seen her leave the port – she'd left the guy who had climbed aboard the boat out cold – but you could never be sure. When your life was lived in the way hers was, even the shadows had eyes.

Exhaustion hovered at the edge of her consciousness, threatening to batten down her eyelids even against Judy's determination to stay awake. _Think_, she told herself, _make a plan, get yourself out of this mess._ But her mind was overcome, with tiredness and a heavy grief that she had been trying to ignore.

Judy sat for several more minutes, fighting a losing battle against the desire for sleep. Slowly, her head sank forward onto her arms, and the darkness faded away.

…

Ray knocked on Welsh's door, a grin on his face. His superior officer looked up from the papers he was reading and frowned, waving Ray inside.

"Good morning, Lieutenant."

"Vecchio. What's got you so cheerful this morning? Whatever it is, stop it. It makes me nervous."

"Lieutenant, when you hear what I've got to tell you, you are not going to be nervous. Oh no. You are going to be _overjoyed_." Ray grinned again, slumping into the chair in front of Welsh's desk.

Welsh looked at him over the rim of his glasses. "Do I look like the sort of person who is easily overjoyed to you?"

"No sir. But you haven't heard what I've got to tell you."

"Which is?"

"I got a call from Fraser earlier this morning. Turns out he and the Dragon Lady managed to track down one of the stiff's friends, by the name of Nick."

"And what did this 'Nick' have to say for himself?"

"Not much, apparently… except he did give them the name of the victim's girlfriend."

Welsh took his glasses off and leaned forward. "And this girlfriend is the one who knocked you out?"

Vecchio nodded. "That's the theory. Actually I think it's probably a lot more than theory. Anyway, her name is Judy Fisher. She's a teenager who'd been living rough in Toronto – but was originally from Montreal." The detective looked at Welsh significantly.

"So? A lot of people come from Montreal. It's a big city."

"Yeah, but I bet not many of them are minors with links to drug running."

"What?"

"Oh, you heard me right, Lieutenant," said Ray happily, standing up and pacing in front of the desk. "Judy Fisher was part of a party of youths suspected of running drugs for – you guessed it – The Jardinere. There were six or seven of the little rats that the Montreal RCMP – in a joint operation with the force in Detroit – suspected were running drugs across the border and into the States, in the employ of the snake himself. However, a week or so before they were due to bust the ring, all the kids disappeared. Gone, just like that. There was obviously a leak somewhere inside the investigation, some cop gone bad for the other side."

Welsh stood up and stuck his hands into the pockets of his pants, thinking hard.

"That must have been about the same time that The Jardinere disappeared from Montreal, right?"

"Exactly. And then, suddenly, here he turns up in Chicago. He just carried right on, and moved his runners somewhere else. He kept them quiet for a bit, maybe changed a few faces – but the operation is the same. They're running the drugs through the Lakes, right onto our doorstep."

"What, and this kid Frobisher was one of his new faces?"

Ray shrugged. "He doesn't really fit the MO of the other kids, but the girl was on his boat, and they sailed from Port Elgin right into Chicago."

"So we need to find this girl."

"Yeah – although there's something I really don't understand. If she's one of the Jardiniere's runners, why was she hiding on the boat? Why not go straight to her sugar daddy and get his protection? Why live rough on the boat?"

Welsh shrugged. "If she killed the kid, maybe she's worried about what her sugar daddy's going to say."

"Nah," Ray shook his head. "If she was running on his boat and he got wind of it – or got too greedy, wanted too big a cut – the boss would want it dealt with."

"So what? You think she's hiding from the Jardinere?"

Ray rubbed his chin. "Much as I hate to admit it – Fraser could be right. Maybe this is more complicated than it looks. Maybe there was another reason the vic brought the girl here."

"Like what?"

Ray sighed. "I don't know, Lieutenant. I guess we need to find her and ask."

…

Meg stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were dry, and now it was the heavy tiredness that had dogged her for weeks that weighed on them. She didn't want to think about it anymore. Everything had gone around and around her head all day, and she'd not found any solution. She didn't even understand why she was feeling like this. Was it a reaction to Jo's illness? Was all this emotional crap just what happened when you were forced to confront the your own mortality? What did she want out of life? She had a good job, a great apartment. She earned enough to be comfortable and prepare a decent pension for herself. Meg didn't have to be lonely when she didn't want to be. So what was wrong?

Stepping away from the mirror, she pulled her robe around herself more closely and picked up the glass of wine she'd poured from the bottle that stood on the table. Taking a mouthful, Meg stared at it. Sometimes there was nothing lonelier than a bottle of wine with a single glass next to it.

There was a knock at her door. Walking slowly to it without putting down her glass, she pulled it open, peering through the gap.

"Ma'am," he said. He had replaced his uniform with blue jeans and a shirt.

"Fraser." She still found it hard to look at him.

He glanced down the hall, as if embarrassed. She suppressed a harsh laugh. Of course he was embarrassed.

"Ma'am, perhaps I could step inside for a moment?"

Meg thought about saying no, but didn't have the energy. Instead, she took a step back and let the door swing wide enough to let him in.

He walked to the center of the room, looking as if he wished he'd brought his Stetson, if only to give him something to do with his hands. For a moment she took perverse enjoyment from watching him squirm, and said nothing. In the end, he turned towards her, the light of dusk painting shadows around the anxiety on his face.

"What is it, Fraser?" She asked, pushing the weariness into a small space behind her ribcage and summoning every piece of strength she had.

He looked down at his hands again. "I thought perhaps we should clear the air, ma'am."

Meg could feel her eyebrows shoot up her forehead. "I'm sorry?"

He swallowed. "I believe I have made you uncomfortable – in fact, that I frequently make you so – and being that we are currently working in such close proximity, I thought it best to discuss our differences, if we can, and put them aside."

Meg looked down at her wine. "Fraser, I'm not sure that –"

"Ma'am," he cut her off, stepping towards her. "Please. Let's just sit down and talk this out."

She was again surprised at his forthrightness. Looking at him now, Meg saw the determined set of Fraser's jaw and the creases furrowing his brow and knew that he'd made up his mind to have a straight conversation with her. And once Benton Fraser made up his mind, that was it. That was the reason he was still resident in Chicago, wasn't it?

Meg nodded. "Alright. Let me go change."

When she returned, Fraser was seated at the table, his hands resting uncomfortably on the gilt edge. Taking a breath, Meg removed the waiting wine bottle and sat opposite him, clasping her own hands in front of her. Forcing herself to look up at him, she met his eyes.

"Well, Fraser. Here we are. What is it that you want us to talk about?"

Fraser's frown deepened as he leaned forward. It looked as if he were considering what he was about to say carefully, and Meg found herself holding her breath. She had no idea what he was going to say. Would it be about her recent lack of professionalism? Her pathetic inability to keep a hold of herself emotionally?

"Ma'am," Fraser began eventually, "I've always been aware that you have had serious questions about my methods, about my very presence in Chicago. I won't pretend that I've understood your hostility towards me, although I accept that to someone who prizes order and duty so highly, some of my actions over the last few years might have been construed badly…" He looked up at her, dark eyes earnest.

Meg felt a fog of confusion settle on her again, punctuated by embarrassment. Had she always been so hostile? Yes, she supposed she had been. She _knew_ she had. Before she'd even met him, she'd been outraged by the reports she'd read of his exploits. And then something about him, his personality, had just set her on edge. Meg remembered trying to get him transferred. She remembered trying to sack him, without success.

"I have never had anything but the utmost respect for you. I know your job isn't easy, and I admire the way you have managed the Consulate since you arrived. And I will always do what I can to fulfill my duty in a way that assists you in fulfilling yours." Fraser paused again, and looked down at his hands. "Whatever may have happened along the way, nothing has changed my belief that you are doing a very fine job, if it is not impertinent for me to say so. And I would not want any… action… on my part in the past to have made you think otherwise."

Meg was speechless for a few moments. "Is that all you wanted to say?" she asked, eventually.

He looked at her, face still serious. "Yes, ma'am."

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "Fraser, you have always done your duty. I never-" Meg stopped and sighed, rubbing a hand over her face. "I must admit that yes, when I first arrived at the Consulate, I had misgivings about you. But those have long since been replaced by respect… and regard… for you."

"Then why," he asked, with surprising force, "do you find it so difficult to work with me?"

Meg stared. "I… don't know," she whispered eventually. Then, clearing her throat, she continued, "I'm sorry that I have been difficult in recent weeks. As I said-"

"I don't need an apology, ma'am. That's not what I meant by saying what I have. I think, ever since you became my commanding officer, we have been misunderstanding each other. I just want that to stop. So let me say this. I want you to understand that I wish to make your life easier. I didn't understand what has been wrong for the last few weeks, but on the balcony two nights ago you told me, and now I do. I understand what it is to lose someone you love. And I can imagine how hard it is to do it gradually. You don't have to pretend that nothing's wrong. I don't think any less of you for how you feel about it. I'm here to help you. That's what a junior officer is for." He paused, sighing. "You said that you had realized you were alone, ma'am. You are not. You don't have to do it all yourself. And you don't have to be concerned that I would… take advantage… in any way."

"What?" When his last sentence finally sunk in through the magnitude of everything else he had declared, Meg was astounded. "What do you mean? You, take advantage? Why would I think you would do that?"

Now it was Fraser's turn to look surprised. "I thought… after the train… I thought that was why you were so angry with me. Because I took advantage of a situation, in the worst way possible."

"Fraser – my God, is that honestly what you thought?" Meg stood up, agitated. "I wasn't angry with you, Fraser. You didn't take advantage of me. Of course you didn't. There were two of us there." She felt his eyes on her and began to pace, trying to think of something to say that wouldn't completely erase all the barriers she had built against him. "What happened, happened. There's no more trustworthy officer in the world than you, Fraser, I am sure of that. I was angry with myself for – for many things."

He nodded, standing up. "Do you think, Ma'am, that going forward, we could make an effort to communicate more clearly with each other? I am your junior officer. I am here to assist you." Fraser looked down at his shoes. "It's a duty I would never willingly shirk."

Meg looked at his bowed head. She didn't really know what to say. The exhaustion that she'd stowed when he arrived seemed diminished. What he was offering was in some ways a fresh start. They could forget about what had gone before, she could forget the automatic anger. And maybe that's all she needed. She nodded, and felt a faint smile pulling at her mouth.

"Thank you," she said, holding out a hand.

Fraser's hand felt warm as he took hers and shook it gently. "There's no need, ma'am."

They looked at each other for a long moment, and for the first time in many months, Meg looked him in the eyes with complete ease. She smiled again. "Goodnight, Fraser. Morning briefing tomorrow in the breakfast room? 8.30am sharp."

Fraser smiled back as he dropped his hand to his side. "Yes ma'am. Goodnight."

TBC in 8/10. Thanks for reading – and your patience!


	9. Chapter 9

Underneath 9/10

Disclaimer – Please see part one.

Author's Note – So sorry for the delay. Thank you very much to anyone who is still reading.

---

The morning light glinted against the edges of his windscreen as Vecchio cruised the streets of downtown Chicago. He didn't know what he was looking for. He'd been unable to sleep, frustrated that he had a theory that seemed so crystal clear but that he didn't know how to prove. Beside him on the passenger seat, Dief stared out of the window as if searching too. Hell, he probably was. Vecchio reached over and scratched the part-wolf's head as his cell rang. Reaching into his pocket he answered.

"Vecchio."

"Ray, it's me."

"Hey Benny. Give me good news." In a phone call the previous evening, Vecchio had filled Fraiser in on his new intelligence about Caleb's girlfriend. He'd been hoping that Benton, who had been planning on talking to the boy's parents again, would have something to add.

"I'm afraid we have no news at all at the present time, Ray. The Frobisher's knew nothing about Caleb having a girlfriend, although his mother did say that she'd noticed an old ring of hers had gone missing. It wasn't valuable, but she'd kept it as it had been given to her by her mother. So we can assume that Caleb took it to give to his girlfriend. How are you feeling, anyway?"

"I'm fine." The detective shifted irritably in his seat. "I just wish we could find a break through in this case. It's the girl, Benny, I know it – it's all down to her. I just gotta find her."

"That's not going to be easy."

"Too right. These little sewer rats know how to disappear like smoke." Vecchio sighed as he glanced down another alley. "Tell the truth, I don't even know where to start." He braked at the lights. "What are you and the dragon lady up to now? Sounds like you've run out of leads too."

"Well, that's really what I was calling to let you know, Ray. Inspector Thatcher and I are planning to drive up to the Frobisher's home in Port Elgin."

"Oh yeah?"

"As you said, we've run out of leads in Toronto, but we're hopeful we may find something at the house."

"So when are you back?"

"Don't know yet. Could be another couple of days. Are you still okay with Diefenbaker?"

"Sure. Him and me are buddies through and through now. Wanna talk to him? Hang on." Vecchio thrust the phone towards Diefenbaker, who yipped into the receiver once before turning his attention back to the street. Vecchio put the cell to his ear again. "See? He's fine."

"Thank you kindly for looking after him, Ray."

"No problem. With any luck he'll find this chick for me."

"Well, if it really was her that assaulted you on the boat, he'll have her scent."

"That's what I'm hopin', Benny, that's what I'm hopin'. Anyway, let me know how you two get on."

"Will do, Ray."

Vecchio slipped his telephone back into his pocket and glanced over at Diefenbaker.

"What say we find out how good that nose of yours is, huh? Think you could pick up a trail from the dockside?"

---

The drive to Port Elgin was uneventful, permeated by a peace that Meg hadn't felt in months. The sun was gentle but warm, outlining the quiet roads as they drove towards the small lakeside town. Both she and Fraiser were quiet, but it was not the strained silence of their past encounters. It was comfortable. It was good. Meg felt herself smiling as she looked out of the window. Glancing at Fraiser, her heart skipped to find him watching her, a smile on his own face. She looked away again, happy to find that none of the old familiar anger had returned.

"What?" she challenged, in mock defensiveness.

"Nothing, Ma'am."

Meg looked across at him again. He was still watching her, still smiling. "What?" she asked again, feeling herself laugh, despite everything.

Fraiser looked at her for a few more moments before turning his head to look out of the window, still smiling himself. "It's just been a while since you smiled, sir. It suits you."

She felt herself flush but grinned wider, saying nothing as she watched for the road signs that would direct them to their destination. Meg couldn't explain it, but this morning the world seemed brighter, somehow, easier to deal with despite its disappointments and frustrations. Was that all it took? One plain conversation with Fraiser to set her back on the right path? Her mind was clear, her thoughts unclouded. She could see the thread of this investigation again. Duty no longer seemed a chore to endure – it seemed like something to live up to, as it had when she first took the bright red uniform of her profession. There was still the pain of Jo's sickness, but it was mollified somehow – not lessened, but blunted and no longer all-consuming.

The pulled into the drive of the Frobisher's beach house shortly after midday. The place was deserted, but Thatcher was able to let them in using the key they had obtained from Caleb's parents when they got permission for the visit.

The house was spacious and, as was to be expected, expensively decorated. The ground floor was open-plan, its polished wooden floors stretching between huge soft sofas and rugs towards a sliding glass wall, beyond which could be seen a deck and past that, the placid blue expanse of Lake Huron. There were pictures dotted here and there, on pristine surfaces and on the cool walls, of the Frobisher family in happier times. Meg paused in front of a large image of Caleb Frobisher, decked out a lifesaver and shorts, standing happily on the prow of the boat that had so recently taken him to his death.

"I don't know that we're going to find anything here, Fraiser," she said quietly, surveying their surroundings. "It's all so clean and tidy."

"Perhaps we will find something upstairs," the Mountie suggested, moving to climb the wide sweep of open stairs that led to the mezzanine and the more privately situated bedrooms.

Caleb's room was messier than the rest of the house, but not by much. A desk littered with papers and notebooks stood in one corner, and a bookcase loaded with paperbacks and college textbooks leaned next to the bed. In silent agreement, they both moved to the desk, taking a pile each and beginning to sift through the teen's leavings, but finding nothing more than an unpaid parking ticket.

Meg knelt on the thick pile carpet and lifted the edge of the bed's valance. Below was almost as tidy as everywhere else, but she located two cardboard boxes and pulled them out. Sitting with her back to the bed, she began to go through their contents. There was little of interest within – just more of the ephemera so often accumulated by youth.

Fraiser had started going through the bookcase, flicking open each volume in case something of use was pushed between a page or under a dust jacket. They continued, again in silence, for another 10 minutes. Meg was beginning to give up hope of finding anything when Fraiser picked up a heavy text book, and something fell out and floated to the floor. It landed at her feet and the Inspector leant over and picked it up.

It was a photograph. The girl in the picture was young, hair tousled by the wind carried off the lake, for it was clear that the image had been snapped on the deck at the back of the Frobisher's beach house. She was thin, and although a smile played on her pale face, her eyes were dark and worried. The girl held one hand up to keep the hair out of her eyes, and on her left hand was a ring.

Fraiser knelt and bent over the picture beside Thatcher.

"Judy Fisher," he commented, and then pointed a finger at her raised hand. "That's the ring we found on Frobisher's body."

"It's on her wedding finger," said Meg. "They were engaged."

She turned the picture over in the hope that there was an inscription on the back, but it was blank.

"It would make sense to assume that the person who took the picture was Caleb," said Fraiser. "Since he's not in the photograph."

"Yes. It's a pity we have no way of knowing when it was taken." She looked up at her junior officer with a frown. "So they were planning on getting married. It's obvious his parents didn't know – they didn't even know about Judy, much less their son's intentions. So what – they ran away because he didn't want to confront his parents, whom he knew would disapprove?"

Fraiser moved to a sitting position beside her with a frown on his own face, taking the photograph and looking at it closely.

"Then how did the ring end up in Caleb's pocket? Why wasn't she wearing it?" Fraiser glanced at her, shrugging slightly. "Look at this picture. Does she look ruthless to you? She doesn't to me. She looks… lost."

Meg nodded. "Well, at least we know for sure that she's been here. But where does that leave us?"

"With more questions than answers," he answered, getting to his feet and offering Thatcher his hand. "But I think Ray's right. The answer does lay with Judy. Let's just hope he finds her."

---

In stark contrast to Vecchio's last visit, the dock was bustling with activity. Several cargo transports had arrived and were being unloaded, huge cranes lifting massive containers onto shore. The Frobisher's little boat seemed dwarfed by comparison, a child's toy beside the ocean-going ships. Vecchio approached cautiously despite himself, wary of a repeat performance from his last foray onto the deck, but the boat was silent, bobbing slightly on the wash created by its larger neighbours.

Vecchio looked down at Diefenbaker, who was watching him expectantly. Sticking his hand in his pocket, Ray pulled out a scrunched up scarf that he had earlier taken from the evidence box connected to the case. It had been found when the CPD had searched the boat, and was assumed to belong to the girl.

"Well, let's hope it does, anyway," Vecchio muttered to himself as he held it out for Dief to snuffle, "or I might end up swimming to Port Elgin." He nodded at the animal, which immediately went to work.

The Detective had been worried that Dief may have trouble finding the trail since a few days had passed since Judy had been resident on the boat. Not to mention the fact that since then, police and forensic offers had tramped all over the vehicle. But he need not have been concerned. Running first to the steps that led onto the deck, Diefenbaker seemed to pick up a scent almost immediately. Nose to the ground, he trotted along the dock for a few paces, pausing here and there. Ray followed cautiously, careful not to interfere with whatever trail the creature was following.

After a few minutes, Dief came to a standstill. He pricked his ears up and turned to look at Vecchio.

"What is it, boy?" The Detective asked, catching up.

Barking once, Dief took off at full pelt, leaving Vecchio to try to keep up.

---

A full search of the rest of the beach house led to no more clues for the two Mounties. Everything was neat, tidy, in its place. Even the garden was pristine. At four o' clock they decided to give up, aware that they would not now be flying back to Chicago for another night at least.

Fraiser waited as Thatcher locked the door behind them. He felt relaxed in her presence for the first time that he could remember, and although it had taken every ounce of courage he possessed to knock on her door the previous evening, he was glad he had done so. It seemed to have created a watershed in their relationship – their professional one, at least - and whatever barrier had been there before was no longer in place. Throughout the day they had talked freely, and he had been unable to detect any flare of anger from the Inspector. Perhaps it had been enough for him to assure her of his loyalty.

Fraiser had left her room relieved, even happy, although he'd been unable to settle as a result and had slept little. He couldn't erase from his mind the knowledge that what he had assumed had been the problem – his actions atop the runaway train – was in fact not the cause after all. She hadn't thought he'd taken advantage. She hadn't held him at arm's length because he'd overstepped the mark. So what then? Why? Thatcher had grown agitated at his mention of the train, but if not because of his actions, then why? Because of her own? Had she wanted to close that gap between them herself and been ashamed because of it? If that was the case, Fraiser knew he shouldn't think about it. That way lay insanity and more complications – and if today was anything to go by, he would rather push everything beneath the surface as far as it could go than jeopardise their working relationship once more.

Even if the idea that Meg Thatcher might actually harbour some feelings other than those that were purely professional was enough to stop his concentration on any other subject…

"Penny for them?"

Thatcher's voice pierced his reverie, and Fraiser realised his train of thought had made him pensive and silent. Thatcher was driving once again, glancing at him with a concerned but open face. Despite their early start, she looked refreshed, as if the previous evening she'd had her first decent night of sleep in weeks. He flashed a brief smile as their eyes met.

"Sorry, Ma'am. Just thinking," he said evasively, hoping she'd assume it was the case that had his attention and not herself.

She nodded, eyes back on the road. "I hope I'm not keeping you from anything back in Chicago," Thatcher said suddenly. "I realise I didn't give you much notice when I told you we would be coming to Toronto."

"No sir," Fraiser said, surprised again. "I had sufficient time to arrange for Diefenbaker's care."

Thatcher flashed another smile as she looked at him again. There seemed to be some sort of relief hovering behind her eyes. Fraiser forced himself not to think about it, deliberately moving the subject on.

"Are we to return to Toronto this evening?" he asked.

"No – I think if we're going to learn anything more about this case from this side of the border, we'll learn it here. Tomorrow I think we may be able to talk to the harbourmaster, and the coast guard. I'd like to see what they know about smuggling – proven or not," said Thatcher, voice losing its previous soft edge as the Inspector turned her attention to official matters. "They must have seen something, or someone, if Vecchio's right about this being part of a smuggling ring. I doubt the accommodation will be as well appointed as our rooms in Toronto," she glanced at him again, but remained straight-faced as she added, "But then, you prefer to rough it anyway, don't you Constable?"

Fraiser snapped a look at her, shocked. Was she teasing him? She must be feeling better. This was a side of Thatcher he'd never seen before.

"Yes ma'am," he replied, equally deadpan. "In point of fact, I noticed some very comfortable kennels beside the houses in this part of town. One of those would more than suffice."

---

TBC

Sorry to leave it without a particular ending. This part has waffled a bit. But it was getting too long, and I wanted to post so there was at least something up. I really want to finish this, things just keep getting in the way.

Thanks so much for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

Underneath Chapter 10

See part one for disclaimer and notes.

Author's note: I know this is ridiculously overdue. I have no excuse other than overwork, I'm sorry. I was hoping to write this last piece all in one go, but as it happens it breaks quite naturally where I've finished it.

I'm sure no one's particularly interested, but my first published fiction is out. I have two short stories in this book Considering I had a week to do them when my boss dropped out and I know precious little about Doctor Who, I'm fairly proud. They got okay reviews in Doctor Who Mag, too!

…

The sun was out, but still a knawing cold bit at her bones. Rubbing her eyes with one dirty hand, Judy Fisher slowly pushed open the trap door of her hiding place. She had no idea what time it was, but the light was heading towards sunset. The girl knew she should stay inside at least until night had properly fallen, but she was desperate. It had been more than a day since Judy had eaten, and the damp darkness of the abandoned cellar was driving her crazy. It stunk of decayed fish, and who knew what was lurking in the corners. Last night she heard things with small feet scrabbling at the walls.

Judy pulled herself out of the opening and looked around. She couldn't see anyone nearby, though the usual sounds of a busy shipping yard emanated from the distance. These alleys were dim even in strong sunlight, created by old warehouses that were crumbling where they stood. Still, they made for as good a hiding place as any, and at least she was near the boat. Judy didn't really know why that was important to her. She just knew she just wanted to be near something that was Caleb's. There was nothing else. Not even her ring…

Pushing her grief down behind her ribcage, Judy pulled her dirty hood up around her face and picked a direction in which to walk. She had the grand total of three dollars in her pocket, but that would be enough for something to stave off the hunger. As long as she kept her wits about her, she'd be alright. Judy had always been fleet of foot – she could outrun everyone she knew back home. She certainly never had a problem with the fat cops who were her usual pursuers.

Turning a corner, Judy headed towards the mouth of the harbour, where a 24-hr kiosk cashed in on the 24-hr nature of its surroundings. She tried to walk confidently, not wishing to draw attention to herself with shifty behaviour, but she still hunched her shoulders. It was painful being out in the open, amongst the living. Judy was beginning to wish she was dead.

Suddenly, as her feet strayed into the gaudy light cast by the neon-lit kiosk, a loud barking began in the distance. Looking over her shoulder, the girl saw a white blur coming towards her, paws rushing through the puddles in the uneven gravel. Her heart juddered and Judy ran, almost tripping as she turned on her heel and skipped down a side alley. The animal followed, changing direction with utmost ease as it shot down the alley behind her. Panic settled on her shoulders as she looked for a way out, feeling the debris of the half-mulched garbage that lined the path ahead spatter against her ankles.

"Chicago PD! Freeze!"

The voice echoed behind her from the mouth of the alley. At first Judy carried on running, looking around her for an escape, but there was none. She'd turned into a route blocked by a strong iron fence, and the white dog as snapping at her heels. She heard the cop shout again and slid to a halt, almost falling on her backside in the cold mush beneath her sodden trainers. Her shoulders sagged as she realised she was beaten, and Judy slowly raised her hands level with her head, fingers outstretched and palms flat to the wall.

She heard the cop approach slowly and speak to the dog, which was now sitting silently beside her. It had piercing blue eyes that she could see even in the gloom, staring at her intently.

"Dief," Judy heard the cop say quietly, "it's cool, I've got her."

Next thing she knew, the cop was reciting her rights as he cuffed her hands securely behind her before leading her out of the alley.

…

Port Elgin is a quiet town. Perhaps not as quiet as the places that Fraser knew as a child, but quieter than Chicago, or her home city of Toronto. Meg leaned against their hire car as she waited for Fraser to appear and watched the world go by. She felt detached somehow, from her normal life, her normal person. She'd called Jo before stepping into the shower that morning, and had been delighted to find that her friend was the most lucid she'd been in a while. They'd discussed normal things – Jo's children, her garden, the birds she could hear singing outside her bedroom window. At first it felt a little false, and Meg kept waiting for the conversation it to turn into a deeper, darker concerns. But then she realised that wasn't what her friend needed. She needed to feel normal, for as long as she could. And in turn, Meg got her friend back, for however brief a moment. It felt good. It felt very good. Smiling gently, Meg raised her head into the sunlight, eyes hidden by shades. _One day at a time and be thankful for the small things, Meg_.

The crunch of footsteps on gravel announced Constable Fraser's arrival, and he too was smiling as he came to a stop in front of her, nodding a good morning. Neither of them wore the uniform today, Thatcher having decided to that it would suit their investigation to take a quieter approach, particularly in such a small town. As they'd sat eating and discussing the case the previous evening, several local people had approached them, having heard on the evening news that the RCMP visiting. Better for the investigation if they couldn't be picked out a kilometre away.

"Well, Fraser, I have a good feeling about today," Thatcher said as they climbed into the car. "There's going to be a breakthrough soon. There has to be."

"I think you may be right, ma'am. I'm waiting for Ray to call me back – he was unavailable when I tried to contact him earlier."

Meg flicked a look at him over her shades as she pulled out of the parking lot. "You and Ray, there's an odd couple."

Fraser looked surprised at her comment, and for a moment Meg thought she had crossed a line she shouldn't have. But a second later he offered a lopsided smile and a shrug.

"Detective Vecchio is not always the easiest person to work with – but then I expect he would say the same about me, ma'am."

"It seems to work though. The pair of you has been responsible for numerous arrests."

"Well, it has often been observed that opposites attract, ma'am. I suspect that is our different approaches that make us so efficient as a team."

Meg nodded, checking a junction as she turned the car. "Do you think you'll stay in Chicago long, Constable? Can you see yourself staying there indefinitely?"

If Fraser felt surprise at her raising another uncharacteristically personal question, he didn't show it. "I don't know, to be truthful. I am content there for the moment… but there are times when I miss the space of the North." He looked over at her, before asking, "and you, ma'am? Do you see yourself staying in Chicago?"

"I think I'll be there for a while yet," she shrugged, "but who knows?"

Fraser emitted a small chuckle. "That doesn't sound like the Inspector Thatcher I know."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't imagine you haven't planned your career path for the future as efficiently as you manage the rest of your life, ma'am."

Pulling into the harbour, Meg drew the car to a stop and rested her hands on the steering wheel thoughtfully.

"You know, Fraser, even though what I said was pretty incoherent the other night, I meant it. Jo's illness… it's made me think. No one ever knows what's coming. You can't have a contingency against every illness and accident. And if I pour my entire life into my career…" She looked at him, and realising she'd been gabbling, flushed. "Sorry, Fraser. You don't want to hear my inner monologue. But maybe the Thatcher you've seen for the past two years isn't the real me."

Fraser didn't comment, but simply smiled as he opened the door. Meg was reminded of what he'd said that night – that he was there to listen. It seemed he'd meant what he'd said too. He'd always been willing to listen to whatever she had to say, she'd just never taken the opportunity to talk.

…

Ray sat opposite the girl, whose fingers were gripped around a steaming cup of coffee as if her life depended on it. Her hands were still shaking, but Judy Fisher looked far better than when they'd brought her in last night. Then she'd been dirty, cold and hungry. Ironically, a night in the cells of the Chicago PD was the most comfortable she'd had since she fled the boat. Ray could see she was unhappy, however, and he also saw what Benny had meant when he'd called to tell Ray about the picture they had found in Port Elgin. She did look lost, and when Ray compared the scan of the photo with the girl sitting in front of him, he could add grief-stricken to that description too. Ray's instincts were that Judy Fisher was not a killer. That was annoying, to say the least. It'd be very easy if this girl was their murderer. But she didn't look like a murderer. Dief obviously thought she deserved sympathy rather than censure, because he was currently curled with his head on her feet. Ray was learning to take the part-wolf as seriously as Fraser did.

Watching her take another sip of coffee, Ray reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet pouch containing her ring. Opening it, he tipped it gently onto the table. The girl shut her eyes when she saw it, tears seeping from beneath her lashes.

"You recognise this, Judy?"

She nodded, relinquishing her hold on her cup long enough to wipe her eyes.

"It's my ring," she said quietly.

"Well actually, according to Mrs Frobisher, Caleb's mom, it's _her_ ring."

Judy's nervous eyes flicked to Ray's and away again as she hunched her shoulders.

"I didn't steal it! Cal gave it to me… it was his grandmother's. He loved her – said it was right. His mom never wore it. He wanted me to have something that would make me part of his family because I don't have one. Said his grandmother would have liked me."

"So you and Cal were engaged?"

Judy nodded, more tears running down her pale face.

"Why don't you just tell me what happened, Judy? If this is your ring why was it in a dead guy's pocket?"

Judy just shook her head.

"Look," Ray sighed sharply, losing patience despite himself. "I have to tell you, you're not in a very good position right now. You assaulted a police officer. We know you have a previous history with the Jardinere. And now you turn up with a dead boyfriend who definitely shouldn't have been here at all. So why don't you just start from the beginning and tell me everything?"

Judy rubbed her eyes with shaking hands. "I can't. You don't understand…"

Ray stood, placing both hands on the table and leaning over here. "You're right! I don't understand! So make me understand, before I let them lock you up and throw away the key. Maybe that would be best for everyone, huh? One less drug runner on the streets!"

His outburst fell on stonily deaf ears as Judy retreated further. Ray sighed again, sitting down.

"Judy, I don't believe you did this. But I believe you know who did. And I really need you to help me out. Because Caleb's family are going to want blood, and they won't care if it's yours."

Judy stood, leaving the coffee cup on the table as she paced. She seemed lost in indecision, at a crossroads. Dief sat up and watched her. Vecchio did the same. Eventually Judy turned.

"I know how it goes," she said quietly, her voice hopeless. "You'll promise you'll protect me, but you won't be able to."

Ray held his breath. "Could you testify against the Jardinere? Could you help us prosecute when we bust him?"

She stared at the floor, biting her lip before nodding. "I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway. They've always owned my life. And now I don't have anything worth living for. Cal was all I had."

Sensing she had made her decision, Ray sat back and waited for Judy to begin in her own time. He had to resist the urge to flick a look at the security camera, where he knew Welsh would be waiting with the same baited breath as he was.

Judy sat down again, pushing the coffee cup to one side and clasping her hands before starting to speak. "You already know I was one of the ring's street kids back in Montreal. They moved us last time the RCMP was gearing up for a bust. I was just a kid, but I didn't have anywhere else to go. They gave me food, clothes. I didn't have a choice…" She paused, looking up at Vecchio as if looking for approval.

"Go on," he said, as gently as he could muster and suddenly wishing Benny was there. Fraser knew how to handle stuff like this, Ray was just a straight cop. Hard guys he could deal with, with a vulnerable child he was out of his depth.

"I met Cal in Toronto. He was great… different. He had his whole life ahead of him, and he wanted me to have one too. Then he found out about the real me." She shrugged, grasping the coffee cup and staring into the cooling dregs. "I thought he'd run a mile, but he didn't."

"Did Cal help you run the drugs?"

Judy hesitated and shook her head.

"Really? He didn't use his parent's boat?"

Judy hesitated again. "He didn't want to. But he also didn't want me mixing with anyone else. Cal said… he hated doing it, but until he could get me away from them, he'd rather be with me than let me go with one of the ring's thugs. And it was easy because the Port Elgin harbour master knew him, had known him since he was a kid."

Ray sighed, rubbing his eyes. "How many times?"

"Three."

"So the two of you were running the border with drugs?"

Judy shrugged, refusing to look at him.

"Okay. So what went wrong this time?"

The tears started again as Judy continued to speak. "It was going to be the last time. I'd already tried to get out of the running. Cal told me to try, as soon as he found out. He said he'd support me, pay for anything I needed. Look after me. I tried, but the Jardinere just laughed. I belong to them, he said. He'd raised me, paid for my life. He told me to stop dreaming, dump Cal and get on with what I was paid to do. I know too much anyway. I knew they'd kill me if I tried to disappear. That's why Cal started using _The Merry Merchant _instead. Tried to take some control…" She was overcome by sobs. "I shouldn't have let him. I should have just left Caleb and forgotten all about having a real life. I wasn't good enough and I killed him."

Ray let her cry a little, passing her a tissue before asking, "So what was the plan?"

"Cal already knew his parents would never want us to be together," said Judy, wiping her eyes. "His plan was for us to go and get married somewhere before they found out. We put all the money we got from first two drug runs into a savings account, and his grandmother had plenty of money anyway. So he figured, this time we'd just disappear into the US for a while. Get married so I could change my name, hide long enough that the Jardinere would lose interest. Then we'd go back to Toronto and he'd go back to studying."

Vecchio felt the tragedy of two young people caught up in events too big for them. As if that plan would have ever worked, even if they'd got past the first hurdle. But what else could they have done? He could see why they'd felt it was the only option.

"I didn't know that Cal had followed me to the drop-off," Judy said, her voice a wisp in the quiet room. "I told him to stay on the boat, that I'd be fine. I took off my ring so that the Jardinere wouldn't notice. That's why it was in Cal's pocket. I don't know why he followed me. He never had before. I guess he was just on edge, worried. But he was seen – he saw me with the Jardinere." She shrugged again, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, defeated. "They chased him, into that alley. And that was it. I tried to stop them, but then they turned on me. So I ran. They're after me too now."

There was a silence after she'd finished speaking, and Ray let it run as she composed herself. After a few minutes, Judy looked up, her gaze suddenly piercing with anger.

"I can give you names. Dates. I can tell you the name of the cop in Detroit that tipped the ring off before the bust in Toronto. And I can tell you about another run that's due tonight. I'm going to die anyway. Might as well take as many down with me as I can."

"You're not going to die. I'll look after you. I promise."

Judy smiled, an unhappy, joyless gesture. "If there's one thing I know, Detective, it's never promise anything and never listen to anyone that does."

…

TBC Chapter 11 – and it'll be the end, I promise!


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